Unforgivable Sinner
by Fragilereality
Summary: Voldemort wins AU. EWE. After two years on the run Hermione stumbles into the clutches of Lucius Malfoy.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N This is my second attempt at a more serious Lumione. It is darker than my usual work and there are fewer laughs. There is some violence and, whilst there are no rape scenes, there is reference to sexual violence. I will provide appropriate warnings at the beginning of chapters. I don't think anything I've written is triggering, but please read the warnings and if in doubt PM me for an abridged version.**

**This is a Lumione story and there will be a HEA for them. I can't guarantee the same for any of the side pairings. Ginny has her own story arc and if you feel particularly strongly about who she ends up with this may not be the story for you.**

**I have around 40,000 words of this story roughly drafted already. It is still very much a work in progress though and I can't promise speedy updates. I will aim for once a week, but please be patient.**

**Huge thanks to Vitellia for her beta skills, help and encouragement.**

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It is her third winter in the tent and Hermione knows it will be her last. She is not one for melodrama. Despite being prone to frequent bouts of tears she is, and always has been, a realist. It would be foolish to think her circumstances anything other than dire.

The year she spent hunting Horcruxes with the boys seems like an extended holiday compared to what has followed. Back then, she had her wand. How easily she took for granted the ability to conjure heat, to keep herself clean and their encampment protected. It never occurred to her to consider how much more difficult she would find things without the adjunct of magic and if she were alone…now she is completely alone.

Gradually, the enchantments on the tent are beginning to unravel. Every morning she expects to wake up to find that her abode has reverted to the basic two man tent it outwardly resembles. When it rains she places pans beneath the leaking seams to collect the drips. Often she wakes up to find a puddle forming within the creases of her sleeping bag. She thinks if she had her wand she could repair the magic. She could do so many things if she only had her wand.

Things weren't really bad until her supply of Muggle money ran out. Before then, she travelled around the country on the discount bus network. She bought food in supermarkets and treated herself to the odd shower in railway stations. She didn't live well, but she had managed. Now, she is no longer managing. Every day she sees her resources diminish a little further. She has sold everything of value she had. She has a bag of Galleons she doesn't dare use and a pile of magical text books she has read from cover to cover more times than she likes to count.

She has considered returning to the Muggle world. She could check into a homeless centre, get a social worker and a job and try to create a life for herself in the world she chose to leave behind nine years previously. But she doesn't dare. Her parents' house is a burnt out shell. She was right to send them away. Voldemort would have found them. That's the problem with the Muggle world. People are easily found. There are too many records both paper and digital.

So she exists somewhere between the two worlds. She utilises the last vestiges of magic available to her; the enchanted tent, her extended bag, Harry's invisibility cloak and she draws her resources from the Muggle world. She doesn't like to steal, but she has no choice now if she wants to live.

And she does still want to live. Although she wants it a little less each day. When she hears the Snatchers in the woods she almost doesn't bother to run. Before fear comes relief. She will finally be caught. The endless battle against the monotony of surviving is about to come to an end. Then she comes to her senses and she runs silently through the woods away from the direction of her tent. She doesn't think they see her. They are noisy and brash. Their harsh laugher alerts every creature within a quarter mile radius to their presence. Hermione moves soundlessly through the densely packed woods. She tries to keep the watery winter sun over her left shoulder in the hope that she might retrace her footsteps at some point and make her way back to the tent. She knows she won't last a night in the open.

She stumbles over the edge of the embankment and is immediately brought to the ground. She falls in an undignified mass of arms and legs and tangled hair. At first she is not particularly afraid. She is not falling fast and she thinks the embankment will deter her pursuers both real and imagined. But the ground continues to give way beneath her and she continues to tumble downwards and she is moving faster and faster. The world is flying by in a sickening kaleidoscope of fractured images and it occurs to her that perhaps this is how she will die. Her broken body will be left in an ignominious pile at the bottom of a cliff she should have seen. Then there is a sickening thump which she belatedly realises is the sound of her head hitting a tree.

Moments later, there is pain and she clutches at her head, almost expecting to find her skull caved in by the force of the blow. She has come to rest on a mossy bank. The ground is soft beneath her aching body. She looks up through the canopy of trees to the weak sun and blinks slowly as nausea threatens to overwhelm her. She closes her eyes, determined to keep them shut until the pain in her head has gone away. She vaguely thinks that it is not advisable to fall asleep so soon after sustaining a head injury, but the slide into unconsciousness is as inevitable as her earlier fall and she is powerless to resist.

**A/N Well...that was short and disappointingly lacking in Lucius. Next chapter is coming in a few minutes...you've just got time to leave me a review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Sorry! Those of you who read Primae Noctis will be familiar with the asshole baby. she clearly sensed that I was trying to do something I enjoy and chose to wake up just as I was editing this chapter.**

**Thanks again to Vitellia for her wonderful beta skills. She has a fantastic complete story called Past Imperfect and a WIP sequel Present Imperfect - I highly recommend them both. **

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When she wakes up there is an angel standing over her. A pale halo glows around him as he is lit from behind by the afternoon sun. His face is a carved effigy of sharp lines in alabaster skin and he regards her with a look of noble cruelty. She blinks up at him and knows what it is to be judged.

Then he parts his lips, his mouth a wide pink slash in his flawless skin, and speaks.

"Well, well, well, Miss Granger. What a pleasant and unexpected surprise." And she knows he is not an angel.

Standing over her in all his condescending pureblood glory, as pristine and perfectly attired as if he has just stepped off the dancefloor at a Ministry ball, is Lucius Malfoy. Hermione struggles to get her hands beneath her so she can push herself backwards and away from him. Her entire being strives to distance herself from his evil presence. But before she can do more than thrash on the forest floor, the sharp tip of his cane presses against her throat.

"I don't think so, my dear." The cane shifts to tilt her head back against the ground. "There is someone who is most eager to speak with you."

She stares at him. Panic is coiling inside her like the snakes that embellish his hunter green robes. She is rendered hypersensitive by pain and adrenaline. She struggles to think, but a huge part of her mental faculties are consumed by the thought that it must be hard to keep his boots so shiny whilst wandering through the mud.

"I don't know anything," she says, desperation obvious in her voice. "You've already won. Please, I'm nothing." She tries to move back from the tip of his cane and he presses it against her more firmly.

"Now, now whilst I may be inclined to agree regarding your overall worthlessness I dare say you grossly underestimate your value to the Dark Lord." He moves the cane then and trails it across her cheek to spear a chestnut curl which he wraps around the shaft. He drives the cane into the ground tethering her by her hair, her head tilted uncomfortably backward. He squats gracefully and his scent washes over her as his robes stir. He smells expensive and clean like someone has distilled privilege into liquid form and doused him in it. He flicks a few strands of his blond hair over one shoulder and tilts her head even further back with one gloved finger.

"Please" —she has to try again, she can't let him take her to Voldemort— "my wand was snapped. I'm not even a witch anymore."

"Oh come come"—he pinches her chin between his thumb and forefinger with enough force to bruise—"you know it's not that easy. However much you and I might wish it were not so, we both know that your magic is still very much intact."

He stands abruptly and pulls his cane from the ground. "_Incarcerous.__" _Black ropes coil around her wrists, binding her arms securely in front of her. "Get up, girl."

She struggles awkwardly to her knees and then to her feet. She tries to ignore his look of censure as he takes in her torn and muddied jeans, tangled hair and stained jacket. Personal hygiene is not exactly top of her list of priorities.

"Now come along." He gestures with his wand for her to precede him. She hesitates. She has no desire to go anywhere with this man, but he holds all the power and she is too tired to fight back. Would it be so wrong to go along with him for the time being until an opportunity to escape presents itself? She decides to follow the path of least resistance. "Wise decision," he murmurs from behind her as if he is able to read her mind.

He doesn't have her walk far which is a good thing because her head aches and she is weak from cold and hunger. They enter a forest clearing and Hermione stops in surprise and stares at the large horse calmly grazing on the sparse winter grass. She looks curiously between Malfoy and the animal. It raises its head and gives a soft wicker, implying that it knows him. It is only now, prompted by the horse that she scrutinises him more closely and realises that beneath his traditional wizarding robes he is wearing boots and impossibly tight cream breeches, the thighs of which are slightly spattered with mud as if he had, at some point, been riding at speed. She swallows and averts her eyes. The last place she wants to look is Lucius Malfoy's thighs.

"Can you ride, Miss Granger?"

His question shakes her out of her reverie and she glances nervously at the horse. It must be at least seventeen hands. She would struggle to get onto it even if her hands weren't tied in front of her. It is also quite the most beautiful animal she has ever seen. Its coat the perfect buttery shade of palomino. Its mane and tail are as platinum blond as its owner's hair. She wonders at his vanity in picking an animal that so resembles himself. "I can," she answers eventually. "But not while I'm all tied up."

"You shall have to do your best." He looks down his nose at her. "Get on."

She tries to return his haughty gaze as she makes her way toward the huge animal and stands beside it. The stirrup is level with her cheek. Malfoy sighs heavily and flicks his wand. There is an unpleasant hooking sensation in her belly and she finds herself lifted up and into the saddle. She fights the wave of nausea that accompanies her sudden levitation and clamps her legs automatically around the beast. The ground looks very far away.

She gives a small gasp of terror as Malfoy's arms come around her, but he ignores her and grips the horse's neck as he pulls himself into the saddle with a feat of athleticism that she might have found impressive under different circumstances. She doesn't have time to contemplate his physical prowess or much else as he reaches around her to gather up the reins and clicks his tongue in encouragement to the horse which obligingly sets off through the trees.

Hermione squirms. Riding saddles are not made to accommodate two people and no matter how hard she tries to inch herself forward up the pommel she inevitably slides back so her backside is cushioned against Malfoy's thighs. It is unpleasantly intimate.

"Sit still," he snaps as he pushes the horse into a trot and Hermione is forced to tighten her legs around its sides and concentrate only on not falling off. She is doing rather a good job, she thinks until s bird flies up in front them and startles both Hermione and the horse, which shies to one side. Hermione is half out the saddle before she knows what is happening and is only stopped by what feels like an iron band around her waist. She is quickly righted and realises that Malfoy is now holding her in place against him.

"I thought you said you could ride?"

"I can. You try not falling off perched on the pommel with your hands tied in front of you."

He doesn't respond, electing to sniff instead and then giving an exaggerated snort of disgust. "You stink, girl. When did you last wash?"

In spite of herself Hermione feels a blush cover her cheeks. It really isn't her fault she smells. Life on the run does not include the usual amenities of regular hot water and access to a washing machine…or house elves. "I bathed in the river this morning," she says stiffly.

"You bathed in the river?" He sounds incredulous. "It's almost freezing out here, there's ice on the surface."

"I'm aware of that." Hermione shivers at the memory.

"It appears your efforts were in vain. You still reek."

"I couldn't wash my clothes." She hates that she sounds apologetic. "It would have taken them too long to dry in this weather."

"I always thought the term filthy Mudblood was in response to your actual blood," he muses quietly. "I had no idea that, given the opportunity to follow your own instincts you would actually chose to be literally filthy. I hope you don't have lice." She feels him move back a fraction from her as if to keep his silky hair away from her own birds nest.

"Of course I don't have lice," she snaps. She is surprised that he has the ability to so easily rile her. _This is Lucius Malfoy_, she reminds herself. _It doesn't matter what he thinks of you_. "You have to have contact with other humans to get lice. I haven't been that close to anyone in years."

"Is that so?" His arm tightens a little around her waist. "We'll see about that." She doesn't like the foreboding tone that has crept into his voice, but elects to keep quiet.

Eventually, they break out of the dense forest and onto a woodland track. The horse pricks up its ears and begins to walk a little faster. Soon Hermione can smell wood smoke and she sees chimneys in the distance. "Where are we?"

"In the Forest of Dean. Have you lost your mind as well as all sense of how to behave as a human being?"

She clenches her teeth. "I meant whose house is this?"

"It's mine. We have a small lodge here where my family like to gather for special occasions."

"What special occasion is it?" she asks without thinking.

There is a brief pause. "It's Yule, Miss Granger."

"Oh, I didn't realise." She is overwhelmed by an immense feeling of sadness. It's Christmas day and the only human contact she has had has been with Lucius Malfoy. She thinks briefly of her friends and her parents. All lost to her. Last year she at least remembered the date. This time it has crept up unannounced. She thinks rather glumly that she is unlikely to see another Christmas.

The house is further away than she thought and the gentle walk of the horse is rather lulling. Plus she is warmer pressed against Lucius than she's been in months. Her eyes begin to close and she is drooping in the saddle by the time they draw to a halt.

She hits the ground with a scream of pain as Lucius pitches her abruptly out of the saddle. It could be worse. The horse has walked directly into its loose box in a large airy stable and the floor is lined with thick straw. None the less the impact ricochets up her shoulder and she has bitten her tongue in the suddenness of the fall.

"That was uncalled for." She rolls onto her front and spits blood into the straw. "Come on, get up, girl."

He has dismounted too and nudges her with the toe of his boot. It is almost, but not quite a kick.

"Arse," she mutters as she staggers to her feet.

He marches her at wand point out of the stable and Hermione sees an elderly house elf scurrying past them into the loose box presumably to see to their abandoned horse. "Stop there."

She stops.

"Now, take your clothes off."

"What? No!" She whirls to face him bringing up her bound hands to cover her chest in a protective gesture.

"Miss Granger, I am not a patient man. You have already ruined my ride and you are, I suspect, about to spoil my Yule dinner. So why don't you make things a little bit easier for us both and do as I say?"

"No." She backs away from him. "I am not taking off my clothes, you pervert."

"Please," —he rolls his eyes— "you can't think I have any interest in seeing whatever paltry offerings you have beneath your clothing. I assure you, your virtue is quite safe with me."

"Then I'll just keep them on, thank you." She forces herself to keep her voice calm and even.

"I can see you are going to persist in this foolishness. Very well. _Evanesco_."

She gives a scream of horror as her clothes all vanish leaving her completely naked in the stable yard. She clutches her arms further over her chest and instinctively drops to her knees in an attempt to maintain her modesty. This is not happening, she tells herself. She fell down an embankment and hit her head. She's unconscious and needs to wake up. She closes her eyes tightly and then hopefully opens them again.

Lucius Malfoy is still standing over her with his wand drawn and a look of extreme irritation on his pale face. "_Aguamenti_." A jet of water bursts out from the end of his wand and sprays her directly in the face. She is knocked backwards by its force and scrabbles across the paved yard trying desperately to get away from the frigid water which burns her skin. "Hold still," Malfoy snaps. He takes a few steps closer only to curse as she wriggles away. The jet of water stops and the ropes binding her wrists fall away onto the ground. She breathes a sigh of relief. It is short lived. Fresh ropes curl from the ends of his wand and capture her wrists pulling her arms apart and dragging her backwards until she is pinned against the stable wall bound securely between two rings which are presumably used for tying up horses…or perhaps this is a regular occurrence. To Hermione's horror hot tears of humiliation begin to stream down her face.

"Please, please, stop," she begs as his wand once more spews water and he begins to systematically hose her down. He takes his time and moves around her blasting the never-ending jet of icy water from every angle including directly above her until her curls are drenched and her head aches from the cold. By the time he is finished she is incoherently babbling; begging him to stop through teeth that are chattering so hard she can barely enunciate the words. The ropes are finally released and she falls to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself once more.

"Please, Mr Malfoy," she begs. "Please, I'm so cold."

Suddenly his boots appear beneath her nose, he is standing directly above her. His wand tips her chin up so their eyes meet. "Are all Mudbloods as pathetic as you?" he asks with not a hint of compassion in his cold grey eyes. She is too cold even to hate him.

"I…I don't know…" she stammers. She feels a bit less cold now. The tips of her fingers are getting warm and she's feeling a bit sleepy. She blinks lazily. Perhaps she'll just lie down here on the paving stones and take a little nap. It's awkward that he's seeing her naked, but it doesn't really matter. She collapses onto her side and closes her eyes. Oh yes, even the ground isn't really that cold.

"Oh, for fucks sake!" She hears his voice from very far away and half wonders what's got him so angry when she is hit by a blast of hot air. She opens her eyes again to see him flick his wand at a discarded feed sack lying in the corner of the yard. It is transfigured into a coarse set of robes which settle themselves around her body. Then he is levitating her into the air and floating her before him toward the house. Being levitated is a lot more comfortable than it looks and Hermione finally gives in to the overwhelming urge to sleep. For the second time that day she closes her eyes and lets blissful unawareness wash over her.

**A/N I know...Lucius isn't very nice...It hurts me to imagine him this way...**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Hi Everyone, thank you so much for all your reviews, follows and favourites. Here's the next installment. I'm hoping to have the next one with you a little sooner since this one is quite short. **

**Thanks to Vitellia for her encouragment and beta reading skills and to Zeeksmom for her suggestions on chapter one. **

She floats somewhere between wakefulness and slumber. She thinks she must be closer to sleep than awake because she can hear a familiar female voice and it's not one that makes any sense within her current context.

"Where is she?" —it comes closer— "In there? Get out the way, Draco, I need to see her." Closer still. "I swear to god, Lucius, if you don't get out the way I'll…" Then, more tentatively, "Hermione, Hermione, please wake up. What have you done to her, you bastard?"

"I haven't done anything." Lucius Malfoy sounds almost bored. "She's merely hypothermic and hysterical. She'll be right as rain in a matter of hours."

"Father...perhaps you might wait outside."

"You seem to think we are living in some sort of democracy, Draco."

"No, of course I don't think that...but remember what the healer said...about upsetting her?"

"Stop talking about me like I'm not in the room," Ginny's voice again.

Someone gives a long sigh and then Lucius speaks again. "Very well, I shall give you five minutes, Draco, and then I will return."

"Come on, Hermione. Wake up." The voice is more insistent and a warm hand takes her cold one. Hermione struggles to open her eyes. She's so tired and she doesn't want to wake up to a world where Lucius Malfoy strips her naked and hoses her down with cold water.

"Shh, Gin, I'm sleeping," she mutters. She gives the hand holding hers a gentle squeeze. "Besides, you're not really here."

"I am here, you idiot. Wake up, we're wasting time."

Hermione's eyes spring open and she looks up straight into the tear filled gaze of Ginny Weasley.

"Ginny, you're not dead?" She struggles into a sitting position, wraps her arms around the younger girl, and buries her face in her silky red hair, hardly able to stem the flood of tears that threaten to overwhelm her. It's been so long since anyone touched her; let alone held her.

"No, I'm not dead." Ginny is crying too and making no attempt to hide it. "But we thought _you_ were, Hermione. Although they never found your body and Vold...The Dark Lord has never stopped looking for you. I thought you were dead. I_ saw_ you die." She gives Hermione a tiny shake. "How are you alive?"

Hermione rubs her aching head. They are in a small sitting room decorated in shades of hunter green. One wall is lined entirely by disembodied sets of antlers and she remembers Lucius telling her he was staying in the family hunting lodge. She wonders how wizards go shooting, do they use their wands? Her mind begins to wander down that tangent when Ginny gives her a gentle shake.

"Hermione?"

"I...during the battle…" She struggles to organise her thoughts. "After Harry was killed I was fighting. We were all fighting." She looks toward Ginny, seeking confirmation that she has not imagined the whole thing. "Neville killed the snake and George and Lee killed Yaxley." She shakes her head. The image of Fred's crumpled body is suddenly burned into her retina. I was fighting…I don't even remember who." She absentmindedly massages her sternum. "I got hit by a curse right in the chest."

"I know, I saw."

"I fell awkwardly, my wand got snapped." She winces as she says it. She still feels the absence of her wand like a phantom limb which pains her in bad weather. She should have been more careful. What sort of a witch allows her wand to be broken? She presses her fingers into her eyes in an attempt to clear her thoughts and continues, "I couldn't breathe. I was in so much pain from the curse...I thought I was going to die. I must have passed out, and when I woke up…" She takes a moment to breathe deeply in through her nose and out through her mouth. The memories of that moment; of waking up in the dark surrounded by the dead and dying still haunt her. "When I woke up, there were bodies on top of me and when I managed to get them off there were Death Eaters everywhere, looking for survivors." She swallows hard. "I had Harry's invisibility cloak in my bag. I put it over me and walked right past them." She seizes Ginny's hand. "I'm not proud of what I did, I should have stayed. I should have fought."

"Don't be silly. You would have been captured or killed." Ginny squeezes her hand again. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Hiding, mainly amongst Muggles, but I spend a fair bit of time camping out in the woods. I didn't know the Malfoys had a house near here." She turns to look at Draco, who has remained silent throughout this exchange. He is a little taller and broader than she remembers and his sneer is less pronounced. "Gin, why are _you_ here?"

"She's my Award." Malfoy places a possessive arm around Ginny's shoulders. To Hermione's surprise her friend doesn't shrug it off.

"Your what?"

"My Award," Draco repeats. "Surely you know what's been happening. It was all covered in _The_ _Prophet_."

"It's hard to keep up with current affairs when you're on the run and living in a tent," she snaps with a little of her usual spirit.

Draco scowls and Ginny lifts a placatory hand.

"I'll explain then. After the battle of Hogwarts a whole bunch of us survivors were captured. Luna, Neville, Lavender and the Patil twins; we were all taken. Those Death Eaters who had pleased the Dark Lord during the war were awarded a prisoner to do with as they chose." Her mouth curves a little in disgust. "I was given to Draco."

Hermione frowns and looks across at Draco. "But I thought you were in disgrace?"

Draco scowls in response. "Glad to see your way with words hasn't deserted you, Granger. I was. Ginny was placed with me because the Dark Lord thought it was the most likely way to lure out Potter."

"What?" Hermione stares between the two.

"To lure out Harry," Ginny repeats. "Is that why you were really in the woods? Were you and Harry coming to rescue me?" Hope shines briefly on her tear streaked face.

"No, Ginny." Hermione rubs her forehead. "I'm sorry, but Harry's dead. We saw his body, remember. Hagrid carried him back from the Forbidden Forrest."

"He wasn't dead," Draco snaps.

"But Vold—"

"Don't speak his name!"

"Sorry. But You Know Who told us he was dead."

"The Dark Lord was misinformed." Two high spots of colour have appeared on Draco's cheeks and he shoots Ginny a look Hermione is unable to interpret. "Apparently Potter's indestructible after all. He disappeared during the battle. Hasn't been seen since."

"So when we heard that Lucius had found you in the woods we thought you must have been with Harry all along." Ginny's voice has gone flat as if she has lost all hope. "But if you thought he was dead and you didn't know even know I was here then you really were just out there by chance."

"I'm sorry, Ginny." Hermione can't quite believe her friend has been incarcerated with the Malfoys for two years whilst she has been free. The guilt is overwhelming. "If I'd known I would have tried to do something."

"Yeah, wandless and alone I'm sure you would have been utterly terrifying," Malfoy sneers, finally resembling the school bully Hermione remembers.

"Stop it." Ginny places a hand on Malfoy's arm and to Hermione's surprise he backs down.

"I'm fine, really I am." She looks uncertainly up at Malfoy. "Draco and I have an…understanding."

Malfoy looks momentarily pained before the sneer slips back into place.

Hermione has so many more questions but the door swings open and Lucius re-enters the room. She immediately cowers away from him and pulls the blanket covering her legs up under her chin.

"Touching as this reunion is, it is well past time it was cut short. You, Ginevra, should not be associating with Mudbloods and you" —his cold grey eyes turn on Hermione— "are coming with me."

"Don't call her that." Ginny puts herself between Lucius and Hermione.

"I believe you forget yourself, Ginevra. She is my prisoner, as are you, and I will call her exactly as I please."

Hermione flinches away from the malice in his voice, but, to her surprise, Ginny seems undaunted.

"I'm not _your_ prisoner." She moves slightly exposing her profile to both Lucius and Hermione and parting her robes a little at the front. Hermione makes a strangled sound of shock and claps a hand across her mouth. Ginny is obviously pregnant.

Lucius is looking down at her. Anger is evident on his handsome face, but there's something else too. There is an almost imperceptible softening of his features as his eyes rest on her stomach.

"Take her away, Draco. I need to deal with Miss Granger."

"What will you do with her, Father?"

Lucius clenches his teeth, clearly irritated at being questioned. "I will give her to the Dark Lord to do with whatever he may please."

"No!" Ginny throw herself bodily at Lucius. "No, Lucius please, she's my friend. Please, please, don't…"

"Draco!" Lucius is fending Ginny off without the use of magic. Hermione can see that he is attempting to contain her without hurting her. It doesn't make sense, none of it makes sense.

"Ginny, stop." Draco tries to pull her away and she launches a blow at his face.

"Ginny!" Hermione breaks in. She doesn't want her friend hurt on her behalf. "Ginny, it's okay, I'll be okay." She reaches toward her hand and their fingertips brush one last time before Draco drags her out of the room.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," her plaintive voice comes from the doorway.

Then she and Lucius are alone once more.

"Blood traitors," Lucius mutters with a roll of his eyes almost as if he thinks Hermione might agree with him.

"She's my friend," she says softly, her eyes still fixed on the door Ginny was dragged through. "I thought she was dead."

Lucius doesn't respond. He is fastening a cloak around his shoulders and Hermione realises he has changed out of his riding clothes and into a more traditional set of black wizarding ones. He removes a potion bottle from his pocket and hands it to her. She sniffs it cautiously. The fiery tang of pepper-up almost burns her nasal hair. She downs the potion in one swallow and gasps with relief as heat surges through her.

"The baby," she looks up at Lucius "it's Draco's, isn't it?" It's the only explanation for the way both Draco and Lucius had looked at Ginny as if she were something terrible and beautiful all at once. Lucius looks as if he is about to refuse to answer, but eventually he gives a curt nod.

Hermione sits up straighter and slips cautiously to her feet. Her legs are a little shaky but overall she feels stronger than she has in a long time.

"I don't suppose" —she steels herself to ask— "you would just consider letting me go? I really don't know anything of value and if you would just—"

"Do you have any idea how badly the Dark Lord wishes to find you?" Lucius interrupts her. "You cannot even begin to imagine the torment I would suffer should he learn that I had allowed you slip through my fingers yet again."

"The first time wasn't really your fault," Hermione reminds him. "I mean, you didn't even have a wand." It is obviously exactly the wrong thing to say. Lucius' eyes go flat and he grabs her upper arm his gloved fingers biting into her skin.

"Quiet, Mudblood. I don't want to hear you again unless I give you leave to speak. Do you understand me?"

She nods, fear claws its way up her throat again. She doesn't want to see Voldemort let alone be dragged before him in a face to face encounter. She felt his presence on the battlefield and that was more than enough. She's not the girl she was. Without her wand, without her friends, she's half a person; less than that. She feels as if every last vestige of courage and fortitude she possessed has been used up and she is reduced to an empty shell. She is running on fumes and doesn't know how much longer she will last before she breaks down completely. She doesn't want to be tortured and raped and humiliated. She's afraid and she's tired. Exhausted. A terrible sense of apathy washes over her. Is this what the last two years have come to? All the efforts she made to stay hidden. All the deprivation she has endured. All she did was prolong the agony and now her inevitable fate has caught up with her. She sags in Lucius' grasp. There seems little point in fighting.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Argh I have two minutes to update and keeps crashing. Thanks to wonderful Vitellia for all her beta patience. **

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed. **

**Sorry I'm not updating faster. **

**Sorry Hermione keeps passing out...I promise one day she'll make it through a chapter without fainting...**

The crush of apparition is every bit as horrible as she remembers and she staggers and falls to her knees when they land. She concentrates on the exquisite parquet floor upon which she is kneeling and traces the repetitious herringbone pattern as she bites back the nausea.

"Well, Lucius, you seem to have taught the Mudblood her place in record time." She would recognise that voice anywhere. Even though she only heard him once at the Battle of Hogwarts when his magically amplified voice addressed them all it is indelibly engrained in her mind. She doesn't raise her eyes. Like a child hiding under their covers afraid of the bogeyman she will simply not look. Because if she doesn't look and doesn't see him then he is not there.

"Look at your better when he addresses you." Lucius yanks on her hair, forcing her head back. Her eyes automatically swivel upwards to clash with Voldemort's red gaze. He is exactly as she remembers him,his flat snakelike face, hairless scalp and insane red eyes. He has no Horcruxes left, she thinks. His soul is a tiny fragmented thing and only one shard remains; no wonder he's insane.

"So this is the famous Hermione Granger." His dirty bare feet make no sound as he glides closer to her. "She is not much to look at. To hear some talk I expected her to be ten feet tall." There is a ripple of subdued laughter. Hermione looks surreptitiously around and then wishes she hadn't. They are in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. The same room where Bellatrix tortured her nearly three years previously. She feels a tingle in her arm at the thought and glances down, almost expecting the wound to have ripped open and her arm to be bleeding again as it did for weeks after Bellatrix first cut it. She turns her eyes back to Voldemort, but deliberately relaxes the muscles around them so he blurs out of focus. They can make her look, but they can't make her _see_. She refuses to look at the other Death Eaters present. She has no desire to see any of her friend's murderers.

A cold finger brushes against her cheek and she realises to her horror that Voldemort is touching her. The hem of his robes brushes against her body and she is revolted by his scent. It is cloying and heavy and slightly animal, like the inside of the reptile house in London Zoo. She breathes shallowly, not wanting the air that has touched his body to defile her lungs.

"Where did you find her, Lucius?"

"I came across her during my morning ride." Lucius' voice is emotionless. "She was out in the forest, completely alone. She claims to have lost her wand."

"Is that true, Mudblood?" Voldemort takes a step back in order to look into her eyes. "You have lost your wand? How careless."

Before Hermione has an opportunity to answer he is inside her mind. She has never knowingly experienced Legilimency before and she had no idea it would be so painful. She can feel him moving through her thoughts like a physical presence. He barrels through her brain without care for her feelings. He tears into memories seemingly at random, ripping through them and discarding them half watched. She whimpers and tries to drop her chin in order to break eye contact, but Lucius' hand in her hair prevents her from doing so. The pressure increases in her brain. She feels as if her head might burst. There isn't room inside her skull for both Voldemort and herself. She wants to leave,escape herself and leave him behind like a hermit crab vacating its shell. He can have her body. As if the pain isn't enough she can feel _him_. She has no access to his thoughts or memories, but there is a vague sense of reptilian darkness that he smears across everything he touches. It is as if she will never be clean again. She pushes futilely against him, but her mental struggles are as inadequate as her physical ones.

Finally, Voldemort stumbles across the memory of the Battle of Hogwarts. He watches dispassionately as she sees her friends killed and is hit by the curse. At the moment where she falls and snaps her wand she feels both revulsion and disdain pour through their connection. To have lost her wand in such a commonplace and Muggle manner simply confirms everything he thinks of her kind.

He continues to riffle through her memories. He views the Battle of Hogwarts several times. He watches her memory of Harry's dead body in Hagrid's arms and she feels a sense of frustration and confusion overlying her own sorrow. Her conversation with Ginny, Lucius and Draco is scrutinised. Then he skips back and looks again and again over the last two years. He watches without compassion as she huddles in her sleeping bag without a warming charm to dispel the cold of the winter snow. He sneers mentally as he sees her break into kitchen gardens for vegetables and raid restaurant bins for food left overs and she feels his tacit approval as Lucius removes her clothes and hoses down her shivering naked body with freezing cold water. Hermione cringes away from this memory. She hides in a corner of her own mind as she desperately attempts to avoid reliving her most recent ordeal. She feels tears spring to her eyes. The humiliation combined with the agonising pain of him stretching out her brain is almost too much to bear.

"Please," she hears herself whisper. "Please stop." A trickle of something runs from her nose and moments later she tastes coppery blood as it drips from her top lip and into her mouth. Her whole body sags. Even the agonising pain of her weight being taken by her hair isn't sufficient to make her sit up.

Finally, he is gone. Her brain suddenly feels slack and empty and the relief almost causes her to pass out. Lucius releases her hair and she collapses onto the ground and rests her aching forehead against the cool parquet floor. She had feared the cruicatus, but she is almost certain that what Voldemort has done to her is worse than Bellatrix's torture.

"Well?" As if she has summoned the evil which with the power of thought alone she hears Bellatrix's voice. "Will she lead us to Potter?"

"I'm afraid not." Voldemort paces across the room and sits down in a throne like seat next to Bellatrix. "She knows nothing."

"That cannot be true?"

"Do you doubt me, Bella?" He turns on the dark haired witch with the startling speed of a striking cobra.

"No, My Lord."

If Hermione weren't in so much pain she would enjoy the sight of Bellatrix grovelling before Voldemort. "I am merely disappointed. I had thought that Potter would keep his Mudblood close."

"Hmph," Voldemort snorts. "She thought he was dead until Lucius here enlightened her. She's been wandering the country like some sort of vagrant ever since the Battle of Hogwarts."

_That__'s not true_! Hermione screams inside her head. It hadn't been like that. Of course, she'd spent a lot of time just focussing on survival. But she _had_ been trying. Trying to find other members of the Order. Trying to think of a way to fight back. She hadn't given up, at least she hadn't meant to. She blocks out Voldemort and Bellatrix's conversation as tears begin to drip down her cheeks. She had two years to think of a way to rid the world of Voldemort and she squandered that time. Now, to find out that Harry was alive all this time and that she should have been able to find her way to him, it's too much. She stifles a sob.

"Do you want her, Lucius?"

"My Lord?" Lucius' voice comes from somewhere above her. He sounds completely disinterested in the proceedings.

"You were not granted an Award after the battle. An oversight I now regret. It would please me to honour you with Potter's Mudblood."

"My Lord is too kind, but I know my place. Antonin has been of great service to you recently. Perhaps he might like the girl."

_No!_ Hermione tries to stifle the horror at the thought of being given to Dolohov. She can see the dark wizard leering at her from the corner of her eye. Lucius might be evil, but at least he is a known quantity and, with him, she will be close to Ginny.

"Your humility is a credit to you, Lucius, but Antonin has not served me nearly so well as you."

Hermione risks a glance up at Lucius. His face is cold and impassive, yet there is something there. Just a flicker that suggests he hadn't expected this. Voldemort appears not to notice.

"My Lord?" Bellatrix dares to interject. "I would be more than happy to take possession of the Mudblood." Something inside Hermione shrinks away from the fervour in Bellatrix's voice.

"Ah, Bella." Voldemort rests a fond hand in her dark hair. "I am sure you would treat the Mudblood as she deserves to be treated. However, I may yet find a use for her. You've already broken your toy, have you not?"

"The boy was weak, My Lord." Her tone is wheedling.

Hermione wonders who 'the boy' was, but quickly drags her mind back to her own plight. She has learned not to speculate too much over the fates of her friends. It is too easy a rabbit hole to become lost down.

"I'm afraid not." There is a note of finality in Voldemort's voice. "She will go with Lucius. You will keep her safe, will you not, Lucius? She may yet succeed where the Weasley girl failed."

"As My Lord wishes." Lucius shoots a smug look in the direction of Bellatrix. Hermione surmises there is no love lost between Lucius and his sister in law. He may not want her, but he is pleased to deny Bellatrix something. She hopes that will be enough to protect her from the insane witch. She gives a shiver. Since when did she consider Lucius Malfoy her protector?

* * *

Lucius stares at the girl at his feet. She is still dressed in his transfigured feed sack. He had not expected this. He hadn't much considered what might happen to the girl once he fulfilled his obligation and handed her over to his master. He had been pleased to be the one to find her. His position within Voldemort's regime is already secure, but it doesn't hurt to raise his cachet every so often and finding undesirable no.2 was certainly a good way to achieve this. He is not surprised to be rewarded, but the nature of his reward is unexpected.

After the battle of Hogwarts, with his wife branded a traitor and he and his son being viewed as cowards, Lucius had considered himself lucky to be left alive. The last thing he had needed or wanted was a prisoner to deal with. He is aware that the manner in which the awards are treated is the subject of much discussion and speculation amongst his fellow Death Eaters. Those who have been granted a pureblood witch are under considerably less scrutiny. Draco's relationship with Miss Weasley is tolerated and the fact that she now carries his child is generally approved of. Still mourning his wife, Lucius had no desire for a sexual relationship of any sort. Rape and torture have never held any interest for him, and therefore an Award of any sort would have been more trouble than she was worth. Still, Voldemort's purposeful omission was an overt slap in the face. Now, to be given Hermione Granger, Potter's Mudblood, the most coveted of prisoners is a clear indicator of Lucius' meteoric rise through Voldemort's ranks. The approval delights him, but the harsh reality is that the reward in itself is of little use to him. He stifles a sigh as he pokes at her with a booted toe.

"Get up, Mudblood."

She obeys and scrambles unsteadily to her feet. She rubs a hand inelegantly across her face, smearing blood across her cheek. Lucius keeps his features in careful repose. He has no desire to indicate to Voldemort that his gift is anything less than well received. He reaches out and takes hold of her upper arm, noticing how fragile she feels. His thumb and forefinger easily overlap around her bicep. He inclines his head in Voldemort's direction. "If I may, My Lord, I shall take my leave now."

"Of course, Lucius." Voldemort waves a hand expansively. "You will wish to return home in time for your Yule dinner." A slight smirk lifts one corner of his mouth and Lucius fights hard to keep his emotions in check. Voldemort has commandeered the Malfoy residence without leave and shows no sign of relinquishing it. Whilst Lucius has many other properties,some of which he even prefers over the Manor, he still feels keenly the loss of his boyhood home. His occlumency shields firmly in place, he shows none of his resentment to the dangerous wizard who sits before him lightly petting Bellatrix's hair as if she is a particularly exotic pet. Instead he gives a brief bow and retreats from the room pulling the girl behind him. She follows without resistance.

He is about to Apparate away when he hears measured footsteps and a voice calling his name.

"Severus." He stops and waits for the Headmaster of Hogwarts to approach him. "Happy Yule."

"Indeed." Severus does not return the felicitation. His eyes are fixed on Miss Granger.

"So it's true," he says. "You found her."

"I did."

"What is to become of her?"

The Mudblood stirs restlessly and Lucius tightens his grip on her arm. "She is to be my Award."

Snape raises an eyebrow. "Congratulations. You must be honoured."

"Indeed." Lucius echoes Severus' earlier response. He makes no attempt to hide his lack of enthusiasm from his friend. Severus knows him well enough to appreciate that Hermione Granger holds no appeal for him. Snape moves a little closer, his dark eyes flickering across Hermione's face. Blood still drips steadily from her nose.

"She appears to be injured."

"The Dark Lord was enthusiastic in his use of Legilimency."

"Evidently." Snape reaches out as if to touch the girl and to the surprise of both the wizards she wrenches her arm free from Lucius' grasp and flings herself at Severus.

"You traitor." Claw like fingers reach for his face and one of her small feet makes contact with his shin before Lucius shakes off his surprise and wraps an arm around her waist in order to bodily remove her from Severus.

"How could you?" Her large brown eyes are filled with tears and fixed on Snape. "How could you betray us all? I trusted you…"

"Enough!" Lucius sinks his other hand into her hair once more and yanks her head back again. She winces and he feels a brief flicker of guilt which is quickly eclipsed as he looks up to find Severus wiping blood from his own face.

"Are you all right, Severus?"

"I am." Snape fixes the girl with a hard stare. "I suggest that you learn to control that temper, Miss Granger, or you will not last long in this brave new world."

"Who says I have any desire to exist in this world?" She has wrapped her hands around Lucius' wrist in an attempt to alleviate the pressure on her scalp, but her attention is fixed entirely on Snape.

"My apologies, Severus. It appears my new pet is not fully housebroken."

"So it seems." Severus lowers his fingers to reveal a long scratch running across his left cheek. "An omission which will shortly be remedied, I'm sure. My own Award was interested in the well-being of yours. I shall report back that she has become no less irritating with the passage of time." He inclines his head and turns on his heel in a billow of robes.

"Wait…" Hermione pulls against Lucius' hold on her hair. "Professor, wait…who's your Award?" Snape doesn't respond as he walks away.

Hermione looks up at Lucius. "Who is his Award?" Lucius scowls at her and gives her hair another yank.

"I believe you are still harbouring a distinct lack of understanding as to how things will work from now on, Miss Granger. You do not get to ask us questions."

Rebellion flares briefly in her eyes, but she flinches and the fire dies as he clenches his fist in her hair again. She gives a sullen half nod. He transfers his grip to her upper arm once more as he prepares to Apparate.

"Where are you taking me?"

Lucius hesitates as he is hit by the abrupt realisation that he has no idea what to do with the girl. He has no recollection of how Miss Weasley was integrated into their household. Following the battle of Hogwarts he and Draco had both been immersed in grief at the loss of Narcissa. Lucius had struggled with his response to her death. She had betrayed the cause; he accepted that. Her actions had come close to losing them the war. Yet, knowing that did nothing to diminish the emotional bond of twenty years of marriage. He had been torn apart by her death and had retreated into himself. It was perhaps his own emotional distance which had paved the way for Ginny Weasley to enter Draco's heart. Isolated in his own grief, Draco sought comfort in the girl. By the time Lucius became aware of what was going on the girl was firmly ensconced both in his son's bedroom and in his affections. As for the practicalities, where she had slept, how she had been restrained, Lucius had no idea. He had left all the arrangements to Draco. Of course he would never come to care for the Mudblood as Draco had for Miss Weasley, but the responsibility for her housing was his. What was he to do with her?

He had no desire to return to the hunting lodge where Draco and Ginny would be about to eat their Yule dinner in a desperate attempt to maintain a facade of a normal relationship. He refused to remain at the Manor. While he still maintained a suite of rooms in his ancestral home, he did not find his brother Death Eaters particularly pleasant company. Ignoring the girl's question he takes hold of her arm and Apparates her to the one place in Britain that still feels anything like home.

The girl sags against him as they land and he realises that she has lapsed once more into unconsciousness. She is slumped against him, her face deathly pale beneath her freckles and her lips a frightening shade of grey. Lucius levels his wand at her.

"Rennervate." She twitches and her eyelids flutter before falling shut once more. Lucius fights the urge to physically shake her and takes several calming breaths. "Vera."

"Yes, Master Lucius, Sir." A house elf appears at his shoulder.

"Find Professor Snape. Tell him that my Award is unwell and I'm in need of his assistance."

"Yes, Sir." The elf pops out of sight so quickly that her affirmation is cut off half way through.

Lucius hoists the girl into his arms and trudges through the house to one of the parlours. He notices that despite her unconscious state she weighs very little. She appears to be comprised almost entirely of hair. As he sets her down on a plush sofa her transfigured robes ride up to reveal bony ankles. He hadn't really noticed her emaciated state when he was hosing her down. He had been doing his best not to look at her naked form, but it is suddenly apparent just how thin she is. Has she always been so slight? He barely remembers her from their previous encounters.

"It's not even been ten minutes, Lucius, what have you done to her?" Severus billows into the parlour with Vera hot on his heels.

"I is finding the Hogwarts Headmaster, Sir," she states rather redundantly. Lucius ignores her.

"I didn't do anything. She was fine until I Apparated here. She must have lost consciousness during the journey.

"Hmm." Severus looks down his hooked nose at the girl and tucks a strand of greasy hair behind his ear. He draws his wand and casts a number of diagnostic charms. He raises an eyebrow as he studies the results.

"Well?" Lucius has never been any good with healing. He stares helplessly at the glowing runes which hang in mid-air over the girl and considers how angry the Dark Lord will be if she dies.

"I'm surprised she had the energy to attack me." Severus' fingers ghost over the scratch on his face. "She has suffered a concussion." He indicates one set of runes. "On top of that she is severely malnourished and is suffering from hypothermia." Lucius avoids his friend's eyes. He realises somewhat belatedly that his treatment of the girl might have been a little harsh given the outside temperature.

"Does she need a healer?" he asks.

Snape shakes his head. "She needs nothing more than a hot bath, a decent meal and several days' rest." He fixes Lucius with a gimlet eye. "After which, I suggest you let her go."

"Are you out of your mind?" Lucius stares at Snape wondering if this is some sort of joke.

"Possibly." Severus replaces his wand in his sleeve his eyes once more on the girl. "But I cannot see the value in keeping her."

"Our Lord has commanded it."

"I suppose." Snape sniffs. "Perhaps you should have left her where you found her."

"But…but…" Lucius is lost for words.

"But what? You thought she would lead us to Potter? Use your eyes, man. If she knew where Potter was do you really think she would have been out there alone and starving without a wand?"

"It is not for us to decide whether she is of value or not," Lucius says stiffly.

"I suppose." Severus looks away. "You have no desire to keep her though, do you?"

"None whatsoever," Lucius admits. "I had assumed she would be given to someone else." Something hard to identify flickers in Snape's obsidian gaze.

"Surely you don't feel sympathy for the girl?" Lucius asks with some incredulity. He remembers belatedly that Snape has been prone to tendres for Mudbloods in the past. Snape shrugs.

"I must confess, I do. She's little more than a child, Lucius. Look at her." They both look down at the frail figure breathing shallowly on the sofa beside them. "She is utterly powerless; she poses no threat to any of us. If I were you, I would wipe her memory and return her to the Muggle world."

"And suffer the wrath of the Dark Lord?" Lucius struggles to believe Severus could be so selfless.

"You are currently indispensable to our Lord." Snape begins to remove potions bottles from the inside of his robes. "You could afford such an indiscretion. You probably wouldn't receive more than a few rounds of the _Cruciatus_."

Lucius shudders a little at his friend's blasé response to the worst torture he has ever experienced.

"I shall pass, I think," he says, trying for a levity he does not really feel. "If the girl is in as bad a way as you say she would have died out in the woods. She is lucky I found her."

"Indeed," Snape sneers. "Well, Lucius, you never were one to listen to reason. I imagine you will find her immensely irritating once she is returned to her full faculties." He lays out five small bottles on a low table next to the couch. "This is an invigorating draught. Make sure she takes one each day for the next five days. Other than that, make sure she is kept warm and well fed and she will recover in no time."

"Thank you, Severus."

Snape inclines his head and sweeps out of the room. Lucius is left alone with his unconscious prisoner and the house elf who has remained silent throughout their exchange.

"Vera, this girl is Miss Granger. She is my Award."

"Like the Miss Weasley, Sir?"

"Yes, like Miss Weasley. Make sure she is warm and comfortable and give her something to eat when she wakes up. She'll need clothes, too." He gestures vaguely in the direction of Miss Granger.

"Yes, Master Lucius, Sir." The elf takes hold of Hermione's wrist and pops out of the room.

Lucius heaves out a heavy sigh and drops down onto the recently vacated couch. This is not how he imagined the day playing out. His stomach gives a half-hearted rumble and he realises he has missed dinner. He doesn't feel hungry though. Wearily, he makes his toward his study. There is always work to be done and sometimes the orderly world of accounting seems to be the only facet of his life which actually makes sense.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited. **

**Special thanks to Vitellia for her Beta reading and encouragement. Her dystopian time travel story Present Imperfect is getting very exciting if you are looking for something new to read. **

* * *

The first thing she notices on waking is that she is deliciously warm from head to toe warm. She can't remember the last time she felt like this and, for a moment, she luxuriates in the sensation. It is not long though before reality begins to intrude. There is a dull, aching pain on one side of her head. Her brain seems to throb in sympathy with her battered skull. She pushes the covers away and raises a hand in order to gently probe the area. Her fingers encounter an egg sized bump, but no other evidence of injury.

It takes her a long time to remember exactly where she is and how she got there. Her brain feels fuzzy, as if someone has been rummaging around inside and hasn't put everything back in the correct place. A not entirely inaccurate assessment she realises as she remembers Voldemort's brutal assault on her mind. It had been like nothing else she had experienced. The mental violation and the physical pain were both overwhelming.

She has always wondered if she might be able to occlude. It is lauded as evidence of a strong mind and she likes to think she is in possession of one of those. She has even studied the techniques and practiced on her own. She had naively supposed herself ready to repel the assault of a Legilimens. Perhaps she might have had a chance against someone less powerful, but Voldemort had cut through her rudimentary defences like a knife through butter. He had brushed aside her shields like Molly Weasley laying waste to the cobwebs in Grimmauld Place. She finds herself feeling almost grateful that she hasn't seen Harry since the Battle. The thought that she would have been unable to keep his secrets is almost as painful as the ache in her head.

She opens her eyes slowly. Even the smallest incursion of light between the lids exacerbates her headache, but she needs to know where she is. She is lying in a bed so enormous that she thinks it may well be larger than her entire tent. On flexing her fingers against the sheets she encounters the softest of cotton and the quilt covering her is light weight, but warm and it crackles with the soft sound of expensive down. She moves her arms and legs slowly as if she is making a snow angel. She tries to assess whether all her limbs are intact, but can't help but enjoy the silky smoothness of the fabric against her skin. Life on the run has taught her to appreciate any luxury she encounters no matter how small. She turns her head to take in the rather sparsely furnished room and gives a shriek of horror as she encounters large eyes and even larger ears only inches from her face.

The creature in possession of the eyes and ears gives an answering shriek and tips backwards off her chair. She hits the floor with a muffled thump.

A house elf. Hermione's sluggish brain eventually moves into action. It's a house elf. She opens her mouth to speak. The words are hard to find as if Voldemort put them back in the wrong box. She hopes she isn't permanently damaged.

"Are you alright?" she asks. She peers cautiously over the side of the bed.

The little elf is busily picking herself off the floor and dusting down her pillow case.

"Yes, thank you, Miss Granger, Master Lucius' Award. I is quite fine."

"Just Hermione will do." Hermione has no desire to be reminded of her position every time the elf addresses her. She pulls herself into a sitting position and fights back a wave of nausea. The room eddies wildly around her before settling down once more.

"I is Vera." The elf regards Hermione with worried eyes. "The Hogwarts Headmaster is leaving potions and Master Lucius says the Miss is to be eating something."

Hermione clutches her stomach as it lurches wildly at the thought of food. She can't remember when she last ate. The previous day possibly. She doesn't even know how long she has been asleep for.

"May I have a glass of water, Vera?"

"Of course, of course. Vera should have been thinking of that already." The elf tugs on one of her long ears and Hermione worries tries her best to avert the forthcoming self-flagellation.

"Please, Vera, it's not your fault. You didn't know when I would wake up. There's no need to punish yourself."

"Miss Hermione is most kind." The elf snaps her fingers and a jug of iced water and a crystal goblet appear on the table next to the bed. Hermione sips carefully, the cool water soothes her throat and even helps the ache in her head a little.

"The potion." The elf holds out a small vial. Hermione sniffs it cautiously. She considers refusing to take it, but really there seems little point in defying Snape. If he or Lucius planned to hurt her they could already have done so whilst she was unconscious. She unstoppers the vial and downs the contents giving a slight shudder at the unpleasant aftertaste. A shimmer seems to run through her body and then her head clears. She instantly feels stronger and more energised. Her fuzzy brain is crystal clear once more and even her headache has receded. In fact, all of a sudden her overwhelming feeling is one of hunger.

"I think I might like some food now, Vera," she says.

"Oh yes!" The elf hops delightedly off of her stool and vanishes only to return moments later laden down with an enormous tray containing a dizzying array of food which she places across Hermione's lap. It is all she can do not to start cramming the delicate sandwiches and pastries into her mouth as quickly as possible. Instead, she forces herself to sip delicately at a steaming bowl of chicken soup before she tries any of the other delicacies. It may be the most heavenly thing she has ever tasted. The thick creamy liquid seems to infuse her entire body with warmth. Its action is even more efficacious than the invigorating draught. She eagerly butters a warm roll and dips it into the soup briefly closing her eyes to savour the luxurious sensation of enjoying hot fresh food. She thinks the torture she has endured might actually be worth it if she is to be fed this well every day.

With the soup finished, she nibbles on a warm Danish pastry and gazes around the room with some interest. She would have expected more opulence from the Malfoys and is surprised to see that the room is relatively sparsely furnished with only a single large chest of drawers in one corner and a pedestal table on which sits an enormous Ming vase. The walls are painted in a light putty colour; three drab landscapes in oil their only adornment. There are two doors, one of which she assumes must lead to a bathroom.

"Would the Miss be liking a bath?" The elf's eyes have followed hers.

"Am I allowed?" After her brutal hosing down and subsequent maltreatment Hermione had expected to be flung in a cell and thrown the odd stale crust when the Malfoys remembered. She is not quite sure what to make of the luxury treatment she is now receiving, but she has leaned over the last few years to take her opportunities when they arise.

"Of course." Vera looks a little puzzled at the question and bustles off into the bathroom. The sound of running water and the soft fragrance of lavender wafts invitingly from the open door. Hermione pulls back the covers and gingerly stands. She feels unsteady, as if she has been ill for a long time and she catches herself on the bed before she can fall. "Miss, Miss…" Vera appears at her side. "Miss should have been waiting for Vera."

"I'm alright." She waves off the elf's concern and straightens up once more. "I'm just a bit weak." She totters in the direction of the bathroom with the elf following close on her heels. She is still dressed in the coarse black robes Lucius had fashioned from the feed sack and she wonders what became of her clothes. Torn and dirty as they were they were still hers and she hates the connotation that goes along with continuing to wear a garment that has been created with such scorn.

The room is dominated by an enormous free standing copper bath and Hermione is too eager to immerse herself in the gently steaming hot water to care about propriety. She strips off the robes and leaves them discarded on the floor as she climbs in. Whilst Lucius' attentions in the stable yard removed any physical dirt from her body, subsequent events have left her feeling dirty. It takes almost an hour of industrious scrubbing for her to feel completely clean again. Vera provides an endless supply of soap, shampoo, conditioner and body scrubs and, on emerging from the water, Hermione finds an array of combs and a toothbrush waiting for. It is as she is vigorously cleaning her teeth that the condensation on the mirror above the double sink begins to fade and she sees herself clearly for the first time in months.

The toothbrush falls to the counter top as she gasps in shock. She is almost unrecognisable even to herself. Her face is gaunt the skin stretched too tightly over prominent cheekbones and her freckles stand out in sharp relief against her deathly pallor. Her eyes have a wild haunted look and are set within deep hollows with dark circles underneath. Every aspect of her bone structure from her collarbones to the intersections between her ribs and her breastbones are clearly visible beneath her skin. She looks like a skeleton in an anatomy department. It is if all the secret workings of her body are laid bare beneath her inadequate skin. Before she truly considers the consequences of her actions Hermione drops the towel which has covered her chest and steps back to survey herself fully.

Somewhere over the last few years the last vestiges of girlishness have disappeared. Although she is painfully thin her figure bears the unmistakable curves of womanhood. Her waist is slightly indented and her breasts surprisingly full considering the sparsity of the rest of her figure. Her hipbones jut prominently and despite her recent meal her stomach is concave. Hermione stares until her reflection becomes blurry and she realises that her eyes have filled with tears. She doesn't know the gaunt, haunted young woman who stares back at her. Her childhood ended in a chilly tent that smelled of cats and she hadn't even known to mark its passage.

"Miss?"

She quickly stoops and pulls the towel up.

"Is Miss wishing Vera to help with her hair?"

She gives a wordless nod and takes a seat on the stool the elf conjures for her. With amazing gentleness the little creature begins to comb through her unruly curls.

Hermione feels the tears threatening once more. She knows that Vera is merely doing her job as she painstakingly removes the evidence of months of neglect. But her touch is so careful, so tender even that Hermione can't help but think it feels like kindness. She sniffs and fights back a sob.

"Vera, do you know what happened to my clothes?"

"Miss leaves her clothes on the floor." The elf gestures in the direction of the transfigured robes which she has carefully picked up and hung on the back of the door.

"No, those aren't my clothes. I mean I was wearing them, but when Mr Malfoy found me I was wearing something else."

Vera shakes her head regretfully. "No other clothes, Miss, but don't worry. Vera will provide clothes." She gives Hermione's head a gentle pat. Her hair has been carefully corralled into a tight French braid. The severe style only serves to highlight her thin features. Vera snaps her fingers and her arms are suddenly filled with green silk. She proudly hands the garment over to Hermione.

"I can't wear this!"

The nightgown is full length, but not nearly as modest as its length might suggest. It is low cut, both front and back, and has a daring slit which Hermione fears will extend almost to her groin. She is abruptly reminded of her precarious position in the Malfoy household. Lucius had said earlier that he has no interest in her body, but she thinks now that he must have been lying. She can see no other reason for her to be dressed up like this. "Don't you have anything more modest?" she asks the elf, whose ears have drooped in disappointment at Hermione's response.

"No Miss. This is being what the Awards wear." Vera looks crestfallen at being the source of Hermione's disappointment.

Not wanting to upset the elf who looks on the brink of starting to iron her ears Hermione takes the nightgown and retreats into the bathroom. She is suddenly in need of a little privacy. No matter how kind Vera may be, her loyalty is to the Malfoys not to Hermione. She drops her towel and pulls the nightgown over her head. Perhaps it won't be as bad as she fears.

It's worse. The dark green silk clings lovingly to every contour of her slim body. It accentuates the curve of her breasts and backside in a manner Hermione finds rather obscene, especially when viewed in harsh contrast to her protruding collar bones and birdlike arms. She turns away from the mirror having no desire to spend any more time scrutinising her emaciated form.

When she emerges from the bathroom Vera has gone. She has taken the tray of food with her, but left behind a tea service. Hermione pours herself a cup. Suddenly overwhelmed by tiredness, she climbs into the enormous bed and pulls the covers protectively up to her chin. She knows she ought to stay awake and alert; ready to fight off Malfoy and his unwelcome advances. But the warmth and the food filling her belly makes her soporific and before she knows what is happening she is drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Lucius spends the rest of the day immersed in paperwork. He has his own business interests to manage as well as those of the Ministry. In the years since Narcissa's death, work has been his salvation. It is an addiction to him; the pull of his ledgers and spreadsheets stronger than alcohol or drugs. He can lose himself for hours in his forecasts and predictions and he is undoubtedly talented. The Malfoy fortune has more than doubled since he inherited the estate. Times are harder under Voldemort's regime, but Lucius is still prospering whilst many other businesses are struggling to survive.

Around midnight, he is unable to deny the heaviness of his eyelids. Twice he finds himself startling awake, his quill dripping ink onto the contract he is studying. He puts aside his paperwork and makes his way on heavy legs toward his bedroom. He is looking forward to a hot shower and a few hours of oblivion. He might even allow himself a dose of Dreamless Sleep. The day has been unsettling and he has no desire to relive the events in his dreams.

He is already undoing his cravat as he traverses the familiar passageway and reaches for the doorhandle. He freezes on the threshold, his fingers still gripping the unravelling silk as he realises that his chamber is already occupied. There is a huddled figure, seemingly asleep, in the centre of his bed.

He moves fully into the room and closes the door behind him with a soft click. He immediately realises his mistake. He told the elf that the Mudblood was his Award. The creature took him at his word. Miss Weasley is ensconced in Draco's bedroom and the elf has extrapolated this information to infer that Miss Granger will sleep with him. He lets out a heavy sigh and opens his mouth to call the elf and demand that the girl be taken elsewhere.

Perhaps it is a delayed reaction to the light from the hallway, or perhaps the click of the latch has finally penetrated deeply enough into her brain to awaken her. Whatever it is, something alerts her to his presence. Before Lucius can speak she sits bolt upright and clutches the covers to her chest. Her eyes are wide with terror and her voice shakes as she demands, "What are you doing here?" She struggles across the bed away from him.

"This is my bedroom, Miss Granger."

"Oh." She looks around frantically as if seeking an escape route. "I didn't know. The elf put me here…I…"

Her terror is palpable and her expectations of him hang heavy in the air between them. Lucius is willing to accept that he is not a kind man, he might even run to cruel, but he finds himself unaccountably affronted at her obvious belief that he is capable of sexual violence. How dare she even think he would wish to impose on her in such a manner? He opens his mouth to alleviate her fear, only to find himself momentarily robbed of the ability to speak as she scrambles fully off the bed and retreats across the room.

"What on earth are you wearing?" He stares incredulously at the nightdress which is doing a very poor job of covering her body.

She plucks at the fabric. "This? This is the gown _you_ provided for me." Her censure is unspoken, but clearly apparent.

He assumes the garment is supposed to be seductive. But the long leg which emerges from the thigh high slit is stick thin and trembling. The gown clings to her high breasts, but this evidence of her femininity only seems to further highlight the frailty of the rest of her body. With her enormous hair restrained behind her she reminds him of a half drowned bird; her saturated feathers clinging to her bony frame. She looks insubstantial as if she might blow away at any moment.

Lucius likes slim woman. Narcissa always kept herself just on the right side of fashionably slender. But there is nothing attractive to him about Hermione Granger in her current incarnation. Even if it weren't for her blood status she is too frail, too fragile. She looks as if she might snap in a strong breeze. Lucius can't imagine her insubstantial body withstanding the kind of vigorous lovemaking he is used to. Intellectually, he knows the elf was only following instructions. Yet still, he is offended that it would think him capable of forcing himself on this pitiful creature.

He draws his wand with a flourish and brandishes it in her direction.

"No, please…" She holds up her hands and backs away from him.

He wonders what she thinks he is going to do. He knows that his anger toward her is as unjustified as his irritation with the elf, but he still holds her to blame for the situation they have found themselves in. He gives a deliberately cruel smile and takes a predatory step in her direction. She has hit the wall and cannot back away any further. He gives his wand a desultory flick and transfigures the obscene gown into a pair of pyjamas which cover her fully from neck to ankle.

She gives a whimper as the magic first washes over her and then a soft cry of relief as she lifts her arm to examine the sleeve.

"Thank you."

"Do not thank me, girl. I am merely saving myself from being forced to look at you."

"Oh." She wraps her arms around herself. To his surprise hurt flickers across her expressive face. Is she completely incapable of hiding any sort of emotion?

"This is not your bed." He gestures with his wand at the rumpled sheets of his four poster.

"I'm sorry." She cringes away from him. "I didn't know. If you could just call Vera and she can take me to where I'm supposed to sleep…" She stops talking, but looks up at him with a flicker of hope in her brown eyes.

He considers his next action. He _should_ call Vera and have her take the girl to another room. Yet, something stops him. Perhaps he doesn't want to admit his mistake to the Mudblood, or to the elf. Perhaps he is offended that she clearly finds him so repugnant. Whatever it is, a tiny, stubborn part of his brain refuses to give her what she so patently desires.

He strides around the bed, taking a perverse pleasure in the way she cringes away from him, and snatches up a pillow which he flings into a corner of the room. With a few flicks of his wand he transfigures it into a small futon and thin blanket. He reflects briefly that it is fortunate he is so adept at transfiguration since his skills have been called upon so frequently in the last twenty-four hours. Much to the disappointment of Minerva McGonagall, who would have loved the opportunity to chastise him, he had topped his class right through Hogwarts. The teacher had even suggested he pursue a mastery much to his derision. Malfoy heirs were primed to run the family business, not mess around with unnecessary education.

"This is where you will sleep." He gestures with his wand to the futon.

She doesn't speak, but makes her way cautiously toward the makeshift bed as if she expects to be hexed at any moment. She sits with her back against the wall, the blanket drawn up to her chin like a little girl hiding in the wardrobe from the bogey-man. Lucius gives a heavy sigh.

"Go to sleep, Miss Granger." He leaves her huddled on the futon and enters the bathroom. He is relieved to close the door between him and the Mudblood. He's had quite enough of her terrified wide eyed stare.

By the time he has finished his ablutions she has rearranged herself on the futon and appears to be asleep her back still pressed firmly against the wall.

**A/N I'm heading off on holiday for 2.5 wks on Wednesday. We're travelling to the US with 3 children and hand luggage only, so I won't be bringing my massive laptop. I'm really hoping to have a couple of chapters on the ipad so I can manage to update while I'm away, but if I'm gone for two weeks please forgive me. **

**I'm finding writing a serious story quite challenging. It's not nearly as easy as writing fluff and smut! If you think I'm doing okay, I'd really love a review to let me know :)**


	6. Chapter 6

She wakes suddenly disorientated and afraid. She forces herself to lie still in spite of her pounding heart. She keeps her breathing even and imposes a semblance of calm she does not feel on her unruly body as the memories begin to come back. She is in Malfoy Manor, in Lucius Malfoy's bedroom, and Lucius Malfoy is — yes! She can hear his heavy breathing on the other side of the room. She takes a moment to marvel at the unlikeliness of such a scenario before she begins to analyse her predicament. Ever since she woke up to find Lucius standing over this afternoon, events have moved at breakneck pace leaving her no time to process.

The room is almost entirely in darkness. Only a tiny sliver of moonlight filters between the drawn curtains. It seems safe then to assume that it is still several hours until morning. Her mind comes first to her gaoler. What a peculiar man. She doesn't know how to take him at all. She had thought earlier that he planned to rape her. Her whole body tenses with fear at the recollection. Even now, she wonders if he is deliberately toying with her, trying to lull her into a false sense of security before he pounces. Yet, whenever his cold grey eyes settle on her they contain nothing but revulsion. There is no avarice, nothing to suggest that he even views her as a woman, let alone a desirable one. It then occurs to Hermione that perhaps he _had_ planned to force himself on her, but had found her so physically repulsive he had decided against it. If so, she should be relieved that her scarred and starved body has protected her. Yet, the tiny part of her in which there still resides a young woman barely out of her teens is hurt by the implication. _Don__'t be ridiculous, _she tells herself. _You are lucky he doesn__'t want you. _She shifts a little on the surprisingly comfortable futon. She supposes that Lucius has been trying to punish her by relegating her to this mattress on the floor. He obviously has no idea where and under what conditions she has been sleeping for the last few years. She considers her current location to be the lap of luxury.

She feels her treacherous mind meandering back toward sleep and pinches her thigh hard in order to keep herself awake. There is still so much to consider. It seems that she is safe, for the time being at least. And Ginny is here. Ginny is pregnant! She tries to remember the look on Lucius' face when he had confirmed that the baby was Draco's. He had seemed resigned, but, at the same time, almost proud. There had certainly been no evidence of the anger Hermione would have expected. But if Ginny is pregnant, does that mean that Draco has forced himself on her? For all that she had known him as a horrible little ferret, Hermione is hard pushed to imagine the younger Malfoy as a rapist. It is equally difficult to imagine Ginny Weasley, who had been desperately in love with Harry Potter, willingly having sex with Draco Malfoy. Her head twinges. Nothing makes sense.

Her mind turns to the second revelation of the day. Harry is alive! Or at least Voldemort believes him to be so. She frowns into the darkness. It is hard to believe that Harry, if he were alive and in possession of all his faculties, would have left Ginny in the clutches of Draco without at least attempting to rescue her. Perhaps Voldemort is simply mistaken or paranoid. Either way, if Harry has not come for Ginny, he cannot be expected to come for her. The kernel of hope which had briefly bloomed inside her withers and dies.

If her time in the wilderness had taught her anything it is that she can depend on no one but herself. She alone is master of her own destiny and if she wants to escape then she will have to engineer the opportunity to do so. She flicks her eyes in the direction of the sleeping Lucius Malfoy. How arrogant of him to simply fall asleep. Doesn't he fear her at all? Has he taken no precautions against her? She strains her senses trying to feel if he has cast any wards around the bed. There is no detectable magic.

Hermione turns over the conundrum of Lucius Malfoy in her mind. She has never afforded him much respect. Had she considered him at all she would have classed him as a second rate wizard; a preening popinjay steeped in self-interest. She is disgusted with herself for allowing him to inspire such terror in her, but she is forced to admit that he appears more dangerous than she had given him credit for. The thought of his treatment of her in the stable sends a shiver down her spine. It is not just the memory of the physical cold which bothers it. It is the coldness of the man himself. He looks at her as if she is not even human. There is a not a hint of compassion in him. There is no good side to which she might appeal. He is an irredeemable psychopath and she needs to get away from him. She needs to get back to Harry.

She considers the means by which she might engineer her escape. It goes without saying that the house will be strongly warded. It is also fair to assume that the wards will be closely tied to Lucius. Should he perish then it is likely that the wards will fall until Draco keys them in to his own magical signature.

She is surprised at how calm she feels as the reality of what she must do dawns upon her. It seems that in order to escape she must kill Lucius Malfoy.

Slowly, so as not to make any sound she turns her head toward his sleeping form. She can just make out his silhouette in the near darkness. He remains comfortably at rest, completely unaware of the mortal peril he is now in. Hermione contemplates his murder. She has never killed anyone in cold blood before. Of course, she fired off curses during the Battle of Hogwarts, but the action was so fast moving she didn't even know if they'd hit half the time. She has never cast a killing curse, but she thinks she could if she had the opportunity.

The cane containing Lucius' wand is propped against the bedside table. Again, she marvels at his arrogance. He doesn't sleep with it under his pillow like most respectable wizards. Stupid man. She sits up slowly and pushes her blanket soundlessly to the ground. She hesitates and chews her lip. Malfoy appears to be deeply asleep. She could have his wand drawn before he knows what is happening. But can she cast an unknown unforgivable in the time it takes for him to physically overpower her? She hasn't performed any magic for two years. She glances down to where her hand has unconsciously fisted her pillow. Would it not be far simpler to dispose of him the Muggle way? There is almost a sense of irony to it. She clutches the pillow to her chest and slowly stands.

Her bare feet make no sound on the sumptuous carpet and soon she is standing over the sleeping man. In the dimly lit room he reminds her of the hero in a black and white film. His chiselled features are softened in sleep, the fine lines around his eyes are less apparent and, without its usual sneer, his face is beautiful. She feels a pang of regret at what she must do. It will be like destroying a particularly fine work of art. She reminds herself that not everything beautiful is good and that the world will be an infinitely better place without Lucius Malfoy in it. She raises the pillow, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

She opens her eyes as the pillow begins to descend and realises to her horror that in the moment she took to collect herself Lucius has awoken. His cold grey eyes are staring up at her. She lunges forward. She knows already that her plan, dependent on the element of surprise, has already failed. But she is already committed to her course of action. There is no alternative but to attempt to see it through. Her forearms are seized in a bruising grip and the descent of the pillow is abruptly halted.

"Miss Granger," his voice is as smoothly cultured as if they had met browsing the shelves of Flourish and Blotts. "Are you so concerned for my comfort you felt the need to rearrange my pillows in the middle of the night?" He raises a groomed eyebrow and his smug expression causes something inside Hermione to snap. Instead of trying to pull away she launches herself toward him. Her arms may be restrained, but she can still kick and knee and elbow and bite and she does all of these things and revels in the soft grunt of pain he emits when her knee digs into his stomach. The fight is over as abruptly as it begins. It is almost embarrassing how quickly he overpowers her. Within seconds Hermione goes from being the aggressor to being pinned forcibly beneath Malfoy. His arms hold hers against the bed and one of his thighs pins her legs so she can no longer kick. She thrashes her head wildly in an attempt to fasten her teeth on him and he gives her a shake.

"Be still, you foolish girl. Don't you see you can't win?"

She stops fighting and pants for breath staring up at him with undisguised hatred.

"Was this really the best plan you could come up with?" He glances over the side of the bed to where her pillow has fallen to the floor. "You planned to smother me in my sleep. How…pedestrian. I must say I'm disappointed."

"Not as much as I am."

His answering smile is chilling.

"Do you know, Draco used to talk about you all the time? It really became quite tiresome. _Granger this, Granger that_. He led me to believe that you were something special. A magical protégée of unprecedented ability. And yet, here you are, given the opportunity to seize my wand and murder me in my sleep you chose instead to use a pillow, knowing fine well your attempts were doomed to failure."

"I didn't—" Hermione stops herself. She hadn't really believed she could smother him, had she? Why hadn't she tried for the wand? She stares mutinously up at him.

"However," malice gleams in Lucius' eyes "don't let it be said that I am not a benevolent man. I'm willing to give you a chance." He shifts his weight and releases her right arm. "My wand is right there, Mudblood. Why don't you take it?" He gestures toward his cane.

Hermione follows the movement with her eyes, but remains still and silent. It's a trap, he's toying with her and she won't give him the satisfaction.

"What's wrong?" Lucius' face rearranges itself into one of faux concern. "Have you forgotten how to use magic after all this time. Here, let me make it easier for you."

He releases both of her arms and leans across to pick up the snake headed cane which contains his wand. Then he sits up, his pyjama clad form straddling hers. He draws his wand with the same slithering sound as a sword coming free of its scabbard. She flinches as he brandishes it in her direction once more. She has had quite enough of being on the wrong end it.

To her surprise he doesn't hex her again. Instead, he holds out the wand to her, handle first.

"Come on, Mudblood. Show me what you're made of. What would your precious friends say if you told them you'd killed Lucius Malfoy with his own wand?"

It's a trap. She knows it's a trap. He's testing her. He'll whip the wand away at the last minute or he will already have cast a shielding charm. She shouldn't let him goad her. But what if he's underestimated her? What if his prejudice has left him unable to believe that he could be bested by a Muggle-born? If that's the case then this could be her only opportunity to defeat him. Her body makes the decision before her mind and she snatches the wand from his hand and points it at his chest.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_ She means it. She has never meant anything more than she means those words in that moment. She swipes the wand and viciously spews out the murderous incantation fully expecting a jet of green light to hit Lucius in the chest. Nothing happens. She and Lucius stare at each other for several seconds. He looks almost dumbfounded, but his look of surprise is quickly replaced by a smirk.

"Quite the murderous little thing, aren't you? You certainly have more of a killer instinct than your beloved Potter. Now, why don't you give me back my wand before you accidentally hurt someone with it?" He reaches out toward her.

"No!" Hermione levels the wand at his chest. "_Sectumsempra!"_ She copies the slashing movement she has seen Harry use. Again, nothing happens, but the handle of the wand begins to feel warm in her hand. She glances down at it.

"_Stupefy!"_

Again, nothing, and the wand is hotter now. Painfully so. It must be charmed to grow hot if used by anyone other than Lucius. With a yelp she opens her hand to release it only to find that her fingers will not unclench from around the handle. She screams as the searing heat burns her flesh.

"This wand has been in my family for over a thousand years," Lucius says conversationally. He appears unaware of the fact that Hermione is cradling her hand and the evil wand against her chest and whimpering in agony. "It has been wielded by pureblood wizards for an entire millennia. Did you really think it would do the bidding of a Mudblood such as you?" He makes a tsking sound and shakes his head. "I hate to repeat myself, Miss Granger, but you really are such a disappointment."

"Please." Hermione uses the fingers of her left hand to try and unpeel those of the right from the red hot wand. "Please make it stop." She is beyond any sort of dignity.

"Not until you apologise." Lucius folds his arms across his chest.

"Apologise?" Hermione writhes on the bed. She tries to buck him off so she can escape to the bathroom and plunge her whole hand into a basin of cold water, but he remains implacable.

"For trying to kill me. And for disturbing my sleep.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers.

"Oh, I'm going to need more than that." He pretends to think. Hermione grits her teeth. She can feel tears trickling down her cheeks and soaking his pillow.

"A wand oath should suffice. You'll promise never to attempt to harm me again. Oh look at that," a malicious smile creeps across his face "you have a wand to hand already."

She would say anything, do anything to make the pain go away. It seems like such a tiny thing he is asking for. She doesn't even stop to consider the implications of what she is about to do.

"I swear on this wand never to attempt to harm you." She can barely speak the words so consumed is she by pain. She stares up at him willing him to read the hate in her eyes.

"Excellent. I knew we'd reach an understanding." He reaches down and takes hold of the wand just above her hand. The wood instantly cools and she is able to release it. She snatches her hand away and cradles it against her chest, too afraid to look down at the seared flesh. She is crying properly now, sobbing as she did earlier, her whole body shaking with adrenaline.

"Stop snivelling girl. There's nothing wrong with you."

Her eyes fly to his. How can he say that when he has burnt her? She might never use her hand again. She bites her lip and forces herself to open up the injured palm. To her surprise there is no evidence of a burn. The skin is a smooth as always with no physical evidence of an injury at all. She looks back to Lucius. He moves off her to stand next to the bed where he nonchalantly finger combs his hair.

"As I said, there is nothing wrong with you. Now, it seems i must remind you for the second time in one night that this is not your bed. If you force me to repeat myself again the consequences will be most unpleasant." He gives her a cold little smile and stands back to allow her to scramble off the bed. She gets ungracefully to her feet and stoops to retrieve her pillow.

"Oh I don't think so." Malfoy levels his wand at the bedding and it explodes in a puff of feathers. "You don't really think you deserve this after what you tried to do with it, do you?"

Hermione doesn't dare answer. She meekly makes her way back to her futon cradling the hand which no longer hurts against her chest.

The physical pain is gone, but she feels utterly defeated. Not only did he overpower her physically, but he outsmarted her too. The realisation that she grossly underestimated him is a bitter pill to swallow.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. I didn't quite manage to answer you all, because the demon baby has woken up and I'm struggling to post this before I go and retrieve her from her cot. Thank you to the guest who left a lovely long review which I can't answer. **

**Enormous thanks to my wonderful friend and beta reader Vitellia who not only spotted some very amusing typos and told me when I'd actually used a semi-colon correctly, but also scripted some Latin for me. Because of her Lucius is even more attractive (currently in quite a scary way). **

**Apologies if anything is amiss, I've had some formatting problems between word and the site and I'm not going to have time to do yet another proof read - let me know if anything looks weird and I'll fix it later. **

* * *

It seems a terrible thing to complain of when she knows the fate of so many of her friends and classmates has been so much worse, but Hermione is painfully and terminally bored. The days have taken on a grey monotony that saps her energy and leaves her apathetic. She is constantly tired no matter how much she sleeps. She finds herself in tears on an almost hourly basis and there seems little point in even getting out of bed in the mornings.

She has never thought of herself as a people person. Her struggle to make friends as a child has bled over into her adult psyche and she is eminently happy in her own company. She survived two years alone on the run with her mental faculties fully intact.

But this is different. She is heartbreakingly achingly lonely and she is in fact not alone.

Lucius dominates her days. The simple fact of his absence is the single axis upon which her world revolves. For a Death Eater he is a surprisingly regimented, one might even say, boring man. He is woken every morning by a Tempus charm. Denied any sort of timekeeping device, Hermione can only surmise it goes off at the same time each day.

He wakes and stretches languorously like an elegant feline, swings his pyjama clad legs over the side of the bed and pads into the bathroom. Hermione watches through the slits of her eyes. He does not look like other people do on wakening. He does not suffer from the human afflictions of sleep crusted eyes or dried spit around his mouth. His hair does not tangle and his cheeks bear only the faintest whisper of stubble. He does not groan and roll over pulling the pillow over his head as if trying to shut out the day. Instead, he appears to wake with a sense of equanimity and calm purpose which Hermione finds deeply unsettling for the early hour he chooses to rise. Most mornings he sports an impressive erection.

Hermione shared a tent with two teenage boys for a year. She thought there was nothing about the male penis which could surprise her. Yet the fact that Lucius Malfoy could be so vulnerable to his own physiology piques her interest. Of course, the very existence of his son confirms that he must have engaged in sexual intercourse at least once, but Hermione still thinks of him as being cold and inhuman, incapable of even the most basic of responses. Arousal and desire should be far beyond his capacity.

At first it terrifies her. Each morning as he leaves his bed she cowers under her own covers paralyzed by fear that this will be the morning he chooses to impose on her in the most brutal of ways. The assault never comes. In fact, Lucius treats her like a piece of furniture, less than that even. She presumes he at least likes his furniture, having chosen to place it in his bedroom. He makes every effort to ignore her presence entirely and on the occasions they do interact he is glacially cold, his whole demeanour prickly with dislike.

Once her fear of sexual assault diminishes this evidence of his humanity becomes by far the most interesting element of her day. His clinging silk pyjamas leave little to the imagination and the jut of his large member is clearly outlined as he makes his way around the bed to the bathroom. She catches a brief glimpse of the outline of his muscular backside before he disappears into the bathroom.

He is a large man. Although slender, he is tall and broad shouldered. Even so, Hermione feels his penis is out of proportion to the rest of him and judges it ostentatiously oversized. She is utterly horrified by her interest in it. She hates Lucius. She cast her first unforgivable at him, even if it didn't work, and she had meant the words as she said them. The only thing standing between her and further attempts at physical violence toward him is the wand oath she made. Sometimes, when she is hating him particularly hard and imagining all the terrible things she would like to do him, she feels the prickle of magic burning beneath her skin as the oath makes itself known. She cannot understand how her brain, which houses such bitter resentment and burning rage, is also capable of cataloguing and appreciating Lucius' physical attributes. Worse still, each morning as her eyes track him across the room, her body betrays her. Her nipples tighten and there is an unmistakable tingling between her legs. Sometimes the brief flicker of sexual desire the daily glimpse of his heavy erection provides is the only real emotion she feels at all.

When he emerges from the bathroom he is clad in his armour of well-cut robes and leather boots, his morning stubble erased and his hair perfectly groomed. He does not dally and spares not even a glance for the girl in the corner. He strides across the room and is gone.

The scent of his cologne lingers for approximately half an hour before it dissipates enough for Hermione to feel safe. Then she fearfully emerges like a timid woodland creature leaving its den.

For the first week or so the bathroom alone is enough to entertain her. It has been three years since Hermione took a bath. Sudden access to hot water on tap and a dizzying array of toiletries delights her. She spends several hours a day bathing. Her urge to wash is about so much more than simple cleanliness.

There are bath salts and soaps, bubble baths and shampoos, oils and creams, conditioners and perfumes and potions she has absolutely no experience of.

She samples everything. She catalogues their effect on her skin and hair, analyses their ingredients and carefully selects her favourites. She is no Lavender Brown, but she begins to see the pleasure in taking care of herself. Her body blossoms. Her matted and dirty hair becomes sleek and shiny, the frizzy curls now glossy ringlets. Her previously sallow complexion glows and the lifeless and flaky skin on her arms and legs becomes soft and supple. It is amazing how quickly her body bounces back from neglect and starvation.

Her indulgence makes her feel guilty. Even as she rubs scented lotions into her grateful skin her conscience prickles with the thought that she ought to be doing _something_. But her abortive attempt to kill Lucius seems to have smothered the last remaining flicker of spirit she possessed. It is as if her previously agile brain has run out of options, for now she seems capable of little more than existing.

One morning, she goes to begin her ablutions and finds the bathroom curiously devoid of toiletries. The few remaining items have a rich masculine scent which simultaneously terrifies and intrigues her. They are most decidedly Lucius' personal grooming products. She uses them anyway although his scent on her skin leaves her restless and jumpy. This feeling is short lived; the following day even his products are gone.

She can only surmise that the toiletries have been removed on Lucius' instruction. She wonders how he knew how much she delighted in them. She does not wonder at his cruelty in denying her their use. She thinks he takes pleasure in any small discomfort he can afford her. He does not limit her supply of hot water and she can still enjoy bathing and combing her hair, but the joy in her exploration of the alchemy is tempered and there are only so many hours in the day one can spend immersed in plain water.

Next, she busies herself with trying to locate the entrance to Lucius' walk in wardrobe. She is certain it must exist as he enters the bathroom each day in his night clothes and leaves fully dressed. After several days of dedicated searching she is forced to admit defeat. Either Lucius or an elf magically summons his clothes each morning, or the door is accessible only via magic. Either way, the bathroom has been thoroughly explored and its capacity for entertainment is limited.

The bedroom itself is surprisingly spartan. There are three paintings, rather depressing landscapes. Lucius clearly does not wish to be spied on whilst in the privacy of his bedchamber. Hermione doesn't think much of his taste in art. The oil paintings were done with a heavy hand and after two days of examination she feels as if she has memorised every brush stroke. There is a huge Ming vase on an oak table by the window. Hermione has attempted to lift it several times, wondering if she might wield it against her captor. She fears her attempts are in vain. Even if it could be used as a weapon the oath she took is coiled tightly around her heart. The mere thought of doing Lucius harm causes the organ to beat painfully fast inside her chest and her breathing to become shallow and panicked. She does not want him dead badly enough to kill herself trying.

In the evenings Lucius reverses his morning routine and makes his way to the bathroom where he changes into a clean pair of pyjamas and presumably completes his toilet. He then sits in bed where he reads a book by the light of a small glowing orb. Hermione has timed this bedtime ritual with careful counting. He reads for precisely thirty minutes before he closes the book, extinguishes the orb and settles down for sleep. It takes him between four to seven minutes to fall asleep. Hermione surmises that the old saying regarding lack of rest for the wicked is incorrect.

She is so afraid of Malfoy that it takes her over six weeks to approach the book on his bedside table and then she only does so because she has exhausted every possible avenue of entertainment available to her. To her surprise the book is a reference text on unicorn husbandry. It would not have been Hermione's first choice of reading material, but by this point she is willing to read anything and she devours the book sitting cross legged on the carpet beside the bed. She ignores two meals and only realises the danger she is in when her dinner tray vanishes untouched. Lucius moves almost without sound and, whilst he is usually late to bed, she has no means of measuring time. It would not do to be caught reading his book. She replaces the text and quickly completes her own bedtime ritual so she is safely beneath the covers by the time he returns.

The tomes he chooses are usually weighty and complex. With him only allowing himself thirty minutes of reading time per day he changes his book on average only once every ten days. After the first incident she has a long wait before he finishes the unicorn book and starts the next, a tedious account of the 17th Goblin war.

Always one to learn from her mistakes, Hermione observes Lucius even more carefully as he reads and begins to read along at his pace. She still allows herself to reread the previous chapters as many times as she wishes and she tantalises herself with glimpses of the contents pages, but the meat of the text she saves so that she will never be left without new material. The highlight of one month is when Lucius finishes a book mid-way through the evening. He has clearly anticipated such a problem and produces a second volume. The following morning he leaves both on the bedside table and Hermione indulges in an orgy of reading.

His taste is incredibly eclectic and, over time, becomes even more so. He moves from care of magical creatures to obscure periods in history to increasingly complex and dark spell casting. One evening, Hermione is surprised and rather pleased to see that he had started to read in French. This slows her down a little and she is delighted to have the opportunity to improve her language skills. A week later, he has switched to Latin. Even Hermione has her limits. She longs to ask him for a dictionary as she finds the more complex verbs very challenging, but she is definitely learning. Her reading preoccupies much of her time; especially now she has the vagaries of Latin grammar to contend with. She finds herself thinking about the books almost constantly as she ponders the puzzles they present and anticipates her next fix. It is this preoccupation which causes her to become sloppy and to forget herself in the most telling of ways possible.

"Mr Malfoy," she says one evening as he is crossing the room from the bathroom to the bed— "can you tell me what "Numquam credenda veneficis cobali sunt" means? I think it's the passive paraphrastic, like Carthago delenda est, but is the veneficis dative or ablative, and why?**.****" **As soon as the words escape her lips she knows she has made a terrible mistake. She has been mulling over the question for hours and it has simply slipped out against her will.

"I beg your pardon?" He stops at the foot of the bed and turns to her. Hermione is sitting on her own futon and as soon as he begins to approach her she scrambles backward on the mattress until her back is pressed against the wall.

"I cannot help but enquire, Miss Granger, as to what has provoked such a question?" He looms over her his hands on his hips.

Hermione licks her suddenly dry lips. _He knows_, she thinks. _He knows I__'ve been reading his books_. She tilts up her chin. "I encountered it in your book." She nods in the direction of the nightstand.

She finds herself hauled to her feet and pinned against the wall so quickly that she can barely comprehend the sequence of events. He has a choking hold on her throat and she grasps futilely at his wrist in an attempt to get him to loosen his grip.

"Don't touch me," he spits the words into her face and she drops her hands. They weren't doing any good anyway. She lets her body go limp.

"I can't breathe." Her words are barely audible. Stars are exploding behind her vision. He's going to kill her for reading a book. Hermione Granger died in the pursuit of Latin grammar. He loosens his grip enough to allow her a single breath. Unfortunately her exhale comes out as a strangled giggle.

"And now you are laughing at me." His fingers begin to squeeze again.

"No,no...I'm not laughing, at you, Mr Malfoy...please."

He allows her another breath.

"Then what, pray tell, do you find so amusing about this particular situation?"

"You're going to k..k..kill me," she stutters. "You're going to kill me because I read a book. Anyone who knows me would see the irony."

"I'm not going to kill you." His words do not match his tone.

"Then could you please let me breathe?"

He slams his hand against her throat with enough force to bang her head painfully off the wall.

"What exactly do you think this is, Miss Granger?" He waves his free hand around the bedroom.

She doesn't answer and he continues, "Do you think I am running some sort of holiday camp for lost Mudbloods?

"No, of course not…"

"Do you know how lucky you are?"

Since his fingers have resumed choking her Hermione doesn't feel particularly lucky and would be unable to articulate it even if she wished to.

"I could do anything to you. You have no power here."

She is suddenly painfully aware of his pyjama clad body against her own; of his size in comparison to hers. She is vulnerable in so many ways. She begins to tremble.

"Please...Mr Malfoy."

"Be. Quiet." He gives her another shake. "The rules are very, very simple. You do not speak to me and you do not touch my things."

"But, Mr Malfoy"— she blames the lack of blood flow to her brain for her inability to hold her tongue—"I'm so bored!"

He abruptly releases her and takes a step back. She slides down the wall her fingers rubbing at her bruised neck.

"You're bored." He sounds incredulous. "Well why didn't you say, my dear? We can't possibly have the great Hermione Granger being bored, can we?"

She is so relieved he is no longer choking her that she doesn't care about the insincerity dripping from his voice.

He reaches toward her and she makes an abortive attempt to evade his capture before his large hand settles in her hair. She lets out a shriek of agony as he pulls her to her feet and propels her bodily toward the bathroom, her hair wrapped around his wrist.

"Look at yourself."

He thrusts her against the counter. She barely gets her hands in front of her in time to prevent herself from landing face first in the sink.

"Look."

He gives her head a little shake and she moans as he rips at her hair. Why does he always grab her by the hair? Their eyes meet in the mirror. She sees the same girl she has always been. Her wild hair is currently even wilder than usual. Her inquisitive brown eyes, flecked with gold are now rimmed with small red petechiae where the tiny blood vessels have burst from the force of being choked. They blend with her freckles. Her neck is a complex mess of reddened finger prints. Behind her Lucius presses her into the counter top.

"You are nothing." His voice is harsh in her ear. "You are less than nothing. What on earth do you think gives you the right to ask me for anything? I do not care if you are bored, I do not care if you are angry, hungry, thirsty or frightened. I only care that you are quiet." He punctuates his words by shaking her like a rag doll. "Do I make myself clear?"

She doesn't answer and he shakes her again.

"Do not make me repeat myself, girl."

She could point out that he is in direct contradiction to his request for silence, but she doesn't dare. Instead she swallows and mutters, "Yes, you make yourself quite clear."

"Good." He releases her again and she slumps over the sink. He elbows her out of the way and ostentatiously washes his hands before he slams his way out of the bathroom.

He is in bed and reading when Hermione finally emerges. She has wrapped a cool towel around the bruises on her neck and bathed her red face. There is little she can do for her aching scalp. She makes her way to her own corner of the room and slips quickly beneath the covers. Tears prickle behind her eyes as she pulls them over her head. _Don__'t cry, don't cry, don't cry_. She repeats the mantra until the threat has passed.

From behind her closed lids she is aware of the room being plunged into darkness and she listens intently for the change in Lucius' breathing that will signal he has fallen asleep. It doesn't come. She cannot sleep either and they lie awake in the thick dark silence until Hermione can bare it no longer.

"Please, Mr Malfoy...can't you just answer my question?"

He sighs heavily in the dark and she almost expects an Avada Kedavra to shoot across the room.

"It's the fucking dative. The passive paraphrastic takes the dative of agent," his voice is terse. "Now go to sleep. If I hear another word from you I will kill you with my bare hands."

"Thank you," she breathes willing to risk her life for the sake of courtesy.

She rolls over and despite her injuries falls asleep almost immediately. When she wakes in the morning both Lucius and the book are gone.

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**A/N I still hate writing Lucius this way, don't judge him too harshly until you've read his side of things...**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N Thank you so much for all the reviews of the last chapter. It really inspired me to get this one edited and out soon. I feel I need to justify Lucius' actions at least a little. **

**Sorry this is just a short one. The next installment is much more meaty, but sadly needs a lot more editing before it's ready to see the light. Also apologies again for any weird formatting - my computer and word are not friends at the moment. **

**Many thanks again to Vitellia for her super quick beta reading. **

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Her scent is everywhere. It permeates his living space, a sweet floral aroma that he swears has begun to cling to his robes because it follows him around all day despite the fact that the Mudblood girl is confined to his rooms.

He could put her somewhere else. The house has enough guest rooms he could very easily never see her let alone smell her. Or he could put her in the servant's servants' quarters or back in the stable where he originally told her she belonged. He doesn't really know what stops him from removing her from his presence. He tells anyone who will listen, the girl included, that the Dark Lord expects him to keep her close. Whilst that is undoubtedly true he can't imagine that all of the other Death Eaters take this command as literally as he. Some of them keep their prizes physically chained to their bed, a practice which Lucius finds quite barbaric. Some, like Draco keep the woman close in the semblance of a relationship. Others, like Snape, are a mystery. He has no idea what Severus does with his award, but he struggles to imagine her sleeping in his chambers. He doubts there would be many raised eyebrows if he were to relegate the girl to the furthest corner of his house. Whatever lewd comments his colleagues might make, it is surely obvious to all of them that he, the head of one of the oldest wizarding families in Europe, is not going to take a Mudblood to his bed, no matter how good she might smell.

Yet he cannot bring himself to move her. Perhaps it is because he doesn't trust her. She's a clever little vixen and he has a certain grudging admiration for her cunning. Were she left to her own devices he fears she would have the house on fire before he could say _Incendio_. Yes, keep your enemies close seems appropriate in this instance.

But he has not accounted for how badly she would get under his skin. Much to his surprise she does not talk. After her initial murder attempts she does not interact with him at all. But she watches him all the time. She tries to be circumspect about it, but Lucius is constantly aware of her large brown eyes following him around the room and he feels like a test subject in a laboratory.

Then there is her scent. It inveigles its way into his dreams, his constant companion whether he is awake or asleep. He can't concentrate, can't _think _because even when she is not watching him he feels her presence like a slightly reproving olfactory spectre. It has to be one of the numerous hygiene products with which the bathroom is stocked. He commands the elves to remove them. After that she smells like him which is even worse, because beneath the eucalyptus and sandalwood her own soft floral aroma still lingers and he is painfully aware of how their scents might combine. His brain shies away from such musings. He can hardly stand to admit to himself how strangely arousing and deeply unsettling this image is. Finally, he simply has the elves remove everything from the bathroom except a single cake of unfragranced soap. Still her aroma prevails. It is driving him mad.

He has started to wake up in a painfully aroused state like a teenage boy with his first crush and he blames it all on the girl. It doesn't seem to matter to his body that he is revolted by her. He can repeat the same mantra before he falls asleep each night. She is nothing, a Mudblood, an abomination, barely human, beneath him, dirty, tainted. None of it seems to make any difference. She emits a siren's call and resisting her is consuming every ounce of his patience and energy.

He grows increasingly terse with those around him. He snaps at his son and Miss Weasley. His treatment of the elves has deteriorated to the point where only Vera will willingly come near him. He has sacked three of his line managers and cut the pay of three more. He exists in a constant state of agitated irritation with every nerve stretched to breaking point.

Then she starts reading his books.

Lucius is a meticulous man. He possesses the ability to notice almost everything in a room as soon as he crosses the threshold. And he observes immediately on entering his bedroom that his book has been moved. The foolish girl has not even done a good job of hiding the evidence of her trespassing. The book is placed haphazardly as if she has set down in a hurry and scampered away on his arrival. After that he sets a simple ward around the book. Each day he returns to find it disrupted.

Her sheer brass neck infuriates him. Is it not enough that she has taken over his room, invaded his sleep and turned what ought to be his personal haven into a torture chamber? Now, she insists on taking liberties with his personal effects, too? He begins to ransack his library for more and more obscure titles. When this is unsuccessful he turns to the Dark Arts in the hope of frightening her away. Eventually he switches to French and then, as a last resort, Latin. And then, _then_ she has the audacity to all but confess to her theft by asking him a question.

And he had snaps. Weeks of pent up frustration bubble over in an act of physical aggression he would usually have abhorred. He is not a violent man. It is perhaps his lack of proclivity for violence that held back his progress through the ranks of the Death Eaters. Ideologically, he is more fanatical than Voldemort, but there are lines he prefers not to cross in the pursuit of such ideals.

He is as shocked as she by his brutality. He has been raised never to lift a hand to a woman and yet here he is, fingers clenched around the slender column of her throat, a mere breath away from ending her life. Even as the part of him which hates her dirty Muggle blood revels in his dominance over her, his innate sense of chivalry is horrified at the look of terror in her eyes. She looks at him as if he is a monster and he battles the sudden urge to release her, to apologise, to draw his wand and heal her and promise never to hurt her again. He holds his ground and he has his reward. She submits. She affords him the respect he deserves as a Pureblood wizard. Her supplication is immensely satisfying.

He tries not to think about the texture of her silky skin, or the way the pulse in her throat flutters so enticingly against his fingers. He will not let himself wonder how that pulse might feel against his lips. He tries to wipe from his mind the heady sensation of being close enough to breathe in her scent directly from her skin. Instead, he focuses on his own shock and revulsion when she dares to touch him. She appears unaware of her intrinsically flawed nature. She has no idea that her mere touch offends him, that she is a mutant, an abomination, an insult to all that he is. Despite everything that she has seen and endured, the girl persists in considering herself his equal. It would be laughable if it weren't so irritating.

He will not succumb to her. He will no longer allow her to affect him. He has work to do, a role to play in the Dark Lord's new administration and he will not allow this slip of a girl to alter his course. He leans heavily on his skill in Occlumency and banishes her from his mind. But no matter how strong his walls, her scent remains; a tantalising reminder of something he will not allow himself to have. Still, she finds her way unbidden into his dreams where she systematically deconstructs his beliefs. He wakes each morning exhausted and confused only to pull his shields a little closer in an attempt to keep her out.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N Hi Everyone, Sorry it's been so long. Thanks for all your lovely comments last time. I feel we're beginning to know Lucius a little better now. Thanks to Vitellia for her super fast beta skills. If the demon baby stays asleep long enough I'm about to send the next chapter to her too so hopefully the next update will be much quicker. **

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Denied her daily fix of reading, Hermione finds the days begin to coalesce into a frightening blur. She is a person who requires constant stimulation. She hadn't appreciated how much of her mental faculties were taken up with the simple business of surviving. It might not have been NEWT level Arithmancy, but trying to decide where her next meal was coming from, or if her boots would survive another winter had taken up a lot of her mental faculties.

Now, whilst she might be in greater danger than she ever had been before, her day to day life is a comfortable one. Every morning a fresh set of robes appears on the back of the bathroom door and every evening there is a clean nightgown. She is served three delicious meals a day, her every culinary whim tended to by Vera. On top of that she is warm and dry and, although now denied fancy toiletries, she has ample access to clean hot water. There is _nothing_ for her to do. There are no small problems for her agile mind to clamber over. There is only the enormity of her incarceration.

She fights against it as best she can. She gives herself an exercise regime and dutifully does sit ups and star jumps in the middle of the day. She tries to do puzzles in her head or to remember potions ingredients or recite passages from Shakespeare. But every day both her body and her brain grow more sluggish. Half way through her sit ups she finds herself lying on the floor completely unaware of the passage of time. She loses track of the brewing process in the midst of her imagined potion making and, where previously she had been able to recite entire soliloquies, she is now limited to brief snippets from random passages which flit through her head at the oddest of times.

Her head feels fuzzy, as if she is watching the world around her through a veil of static. She begins to remain in bed for longer and longer each morning. Where at first she had waited eagerly for Lucius to leave so she could begin her day, now, she barely stirs as he goes about his ablutions. She starts to ignore her breakfast tray much to the distress of Vera who begins to bring her breakfast in bed. At first, Hermione accepts this kindness. But then, it occurs to her that drinking her morning coffee only hastens the onset of the day by making her inevitable trip to the bathroom come all the sooner. After that she thanks Vera for her kindness then rolls over and turns her back on the food.

When she does actually leave her bed there seems little point in dressing or brushing her hair. Nobody sees her save Vera, and really a creature who feels honoured to wear a pillowcase is hardly going to care if she bothers with clothing or not. She is always in bed by the time Lucius returns to the room so why would he care if she stays there most of the day? And since he doesn't even look at her it stands to reason that he would not notice if she stopped brushing her hair.

Soon it becomes too much of an effort to clamber into the enormous bath tub each day. What had seemed like a luxury has now become a pointless exercise in futility. Why get herself all wet only to have to spend precious time drying herself? She begins to skip the daily ritual. She visits the bathroom only when she absolutely has to in order to use the toilet or brush her teeth, a habit so deeply ingrained she cannot abandon it.

Lucius continues to come and go with the same regularity as before and Hermione continues to watch him out of habit more than anything else. She has already memorised everything there is to know about his routine. If he could be removed simply through her scrutiny then Hermione could have killed him weeks previously. She still finds him fascinating. When he is in the room the fog lifts a little and she regains some of her sense of self. Hating him gives focus to the discordant strands of her mental faculties. He briefly gives her purpose.

She does not delude herself that he reciprocates her feelings. He treats her with the same cold indifference he always has. He ignores her so thoroughly that occasionally, when he is in the room and her brain is alive, she considers doing something to purposefully provoke him simply in order to gain his attention. But, as soon as he has gone, the urge passes and she resumes her contemplation of the wall.

Hermione is lying on her futon and staring at nothing when the door clicks open. She is mildly surprised. It's too early for Lucius to return. Slowly, as if a great weight is preventing her from doing so, she turns her head in the direction of the door.

Ginny is pressed against it hands flat against the wood and a familiar look of mischievous glee on her face. Hermione is abruptly transported back to Grimmauld Place and hours spent huddled on the stairs attempting to eavesdrop on the Order. She half expects Ginny to have an Extendable Ear dangling from her pocket.

"What are you doing here, Gin?" The words come out flat and dull.

Ginny looks nonplussed. "I wanted to see you." She takes a few steps into the room and looks down at Hermione. "Are you alright?"

"Physically, I suppose." Hermione shrugs.

"Lucius hasn't hurt you?"

"Not really." Hermione's fingers trace the skin of her neck where Lucius' fingerprints have long since faded. Sometimes she wishes he would hurt her. At least it would break the monotony. She forces herself to focus on Ginny. "How did you get in here?"

Ginny smiles. "Well, Lucius is out riding and Draco's at work. So I told Vera I had to see you."

"And she just let you in?"

Ginny looks a little sheepish. "I may have told her that I was so worried about you I thought it might be affecting the baby. She couldn't wait to unlock the door after that."

Somewhere in the back of Hermione's mind she thinks she ought to chastise Ginny. That manipulating the sweet little elf is a cruel thing to do and is likely to end in Vera repeatedly shutting her head in the door. She can't muster the energy to say any of this out loud.

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Ginny kneels awkwardly on the futon.

Hermione considers the question. "Everything," she eventually answers.

Ginny gives an impatient flap of her hand. "I know that. But what's wrong with _you_. You're acting...weird."

Hermione doesn't know what to say. She doesn't want Ginny to fuss.

"Are you eating?" Ginny looks suspiciously at the breakfast tray Hermione has ignored. "You don't look much better than you did when Lucius found you. You have to eat."

Hermione wants to ask her why, but she is pleased to see Ginny and she doesn't want to fight. "Draco's at work?" she asks in an attempt to shift the younger witch's focus.

"Yeah." Ginny shifts to a sitting position. "It turns out that the Malfoy business is huge. Lucius is a workaholic, but what with him running the economy and everything he's had to pass on some of the more mundane stuff to Draco."

"I can't imagine Draco being too pleased about that."

"He doesn't mind, actually. He's been preparing for this his whole life." Ginny blushes as she realises she has just defended Draco Malfoy. "Anyway, that's not why I'm here. Have you seen this?" She pulls an issue of _the Prophet_ from her robes and brandishes it in front of Hermione's nose.

"I'm not allowed to read," Hermione says tiredly.

"What? Why not?" Ginny stares at her.

"Because this house is not some sort of holiday camp for lost Mudbloods," she does a very poor impression of Lucius' aristocratic drawl.

"But...aren't you bored?"

Hermione shrugs again. "Not really. At first I was. I even stole Mr Malfoy's books. But now, now I don't really feel anything."

"Right," Ginny says slowly. "All the more reason for you to look at this then." She holds out _the Prophet_ once more.

Hermione struggles with a wave of dizziness as she sits up and tries to focus on the headline.

"Rudolphus Lestrange is dead." She looks up at Ginny. "So what?"

"I think it was Harry," Ginny confides.

"What?" Hermione is almost startled out of her fuge. "But it says here he died quietly at home after a short illness."

"Pfft." Ginny snorts. "He was in his wizarding prime with access to the best healers money could buy, not to mention any amount of dark magic. Do you know how unusual it is for a wizard of his age to die of natural causes?"

Hermione shakes her head still unconvinced.

"Besides, Draco says he was fine a week ago."

"That still doesn't mean it was Harry. Don't you remember what he was like?" Hermione gives a nostalgic smile and hands the paper back to Ginny. "He couldn't hurt a fly."

"Apart from the time he nearly killed Draco." Ginny has a mulish look on her face. "Who knows what he's capable of now?"

"If he's even still alive." Hermione leans back against the wall and stares up at the ceiling. There's an interesting crack in the plaster just above her bed.

"Of course he's alive," Ginny says impatiently. "Weren't you listening? That's why we're both here...to lure him out."

"I was listening." Hermione pats Ginny's hand. "I'm just not sure there's any truth in it."

Ginny's expressive brown eyes fill with tears. "How can you say that?" Her lower lip wobbles and Hermione is reminded of her friend's youth. "How can you sit there so calmly and say that he's dead?"

Somewhere in the back of Hermione's mind she understands how Ginny feels. She wants to cry and rail against the unfairness of the world, but those emotions seem far away. Almost as if they belong to another person. She ought to offer her friend comfort. She loves Ginny, but all she can do is shrug.

"I'm sorry, Ginny. I just don't think there's any real evidence he's alive."

"This!" Ginny shakes _the Prophe_t in her face. "This is proof!"

"_The Prophet_ was hardly a trustworthy source before Vold...the Dark Lord took it over. We can't believe anything it says now. Even if Lestrange is dead there's no reason to connect it to Harry."

"What's wrong with you, Hermione?" Ginny reaches out and takes one of Hermione's hands between hers. "Where have you gone?"

Hermione doesn't know what to say. The jumble of emotions she does feel are buried too deep. It's easier just to stay as she is; to float in this comfortably numb state. "I'm fine," she says.

Ginny struggles to her feet. "You're not fine." She dashes tears from her eyes. "None of us are fine and Harry's still alive." She holds the paper out toward Hermione. "The Hermione Granger I knew would have been able to read between the lines." She waits expectantly for Hermione to take the paper and when she doesn't she stoops awkwardly and pushes it beneath the edge of the futon. "I have to go now." Her voice is sad. "I don't know when I'll be able to come back, but I'll find a way to help you. I promise I will." She turns and waddles away. The door closes behind her with a quiet click.

Hermione lies perfectly still and unfocusses her eyes. She frowns slightly. She shouldn't have let Ginny go. There's so much she wants to know. She hasn't asked anything about Ginny's pregnancy or how Draco is treating her. She is a terrible friend. But she is so tired. It just seems easier to stare at the wall.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N Thanks to everyone who reviewed. I really appreciate it. The fanfic app went weird last week and I wasn't able to respond to everyone so sorry about that. In particular, thanks to Zeeeksmom who left me a lovely review which made me desperate to get the next chapter posted. Sorry it's taken me so long. As always thanks to my wonderful friend and beta reader Vitellia. **

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Lucius hates being summoned. Once, many years ago there had probably been some sort of illicit thrill attached to secret meetings in clandestine locations attended only by those who were honoured with the Dark Lord's brand. Those days are long gone. Now, Lucius can't understand why he has to be summoned by an agonising pain in his forearm when surely an owl would suffice. They are no longer a guerrilla group fighting to overthrow the government. They _are _the government and Lucius wishes they could act as such.

No hour of the day or night is sacrosanct. Voldemort's sleep pattern is erratic to say the least, and he has no qualms over summoning his minions whenever a thought pops into his head. Despite the fact that the Ministry of Magic is now completely under his control he still insists on running operations from the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Lucius finds this distressing on many counts. Not least, because this is simply not how things ought to be done. Voldemort is now Minister for Magic and as such, he ought to occupy the correct office. He also ought to treat the role with the gravitas it deserves, but that is a bugbear that Lucius has no plans to share with anyone. It pains him to see his family home treated with so little care. Many of the Death Eaters who have become Voldemort's cabinet ministers are less than sane, and their standards of hygiene do not come up to Lucius' exacting standards. Seeing the state of disrepair the manor had fallen into even during the first year of Voldemort's occupation had been extremely distressing for Narcissa. Lucius had hated to see the family silver left unpolished and the fine crystal goblets scratched and chipped. The decay has only become worse now the Malfoys and their contingent of elves have vacated the property.

Most of all though, Lucius hates being summoned because he is convinced that each audience with the Dark Lord will be his last. Voldemort appears to have grown more unstable as time goes on. He is a petulant and fractious as a toddler and his toys are just as easily discarded and broken. It takes every ounce of courage Lucius possess to wrap himself in his Occlumency shields and touch his wand to his forearm. He knows that his every action will be carefully scrutinised, and that in the dog eat dog world of Voldemort's regime his fellow Death Eaters are simply waiting for an opportunity to drag him down.

The summons comes during dinner. Lucius and Draco both lay down their forks with identical winces. Ginevra gives Draco a wide eyed look of panic. Lucius forces himself to conceal his own concern. It is rare for his son to be summoned. Draco busies himself mainly with the running of Malfoy industries these days and has little active role in government; a small mercy for which Lucius is immensely thankful. Neither he nor Draco care that this might be considered a slight. All that matters to Lucius is that his son remains out of harm's way as much as possible.

They both stand and place their napkins next to their plates. Draco takes his leave of Ginevra who appears close to tears before the whirl of Apparition takes them to their old home.

A full cabinet meeting has been called. Several of the seats around the large circular table are already taken. Lucius gives Draco's arm a brief surreptitious squeeze before he takes his appointed seat next to Severus. Snape has the questionable honour of sitting next to Voldemort. Bella sits on the Dark Lord's other side. She is grinning wildly, delighted to be in the Dark Lord's presence and making no pretense at grief over her husband's recent demise. Draco does not even merit a seat at the table. Instead, he sits in one of the several rows of chairs which have been placed against one wall.

Severus nods in acknowledgement of Lucius' arrival. Voldemort is already seated and looks malevolently around the room. His red eyes glow with irritation as his followers fail to seat themselves quickly enough.

Lucius runs over the previous week's business in his head, wondering what is to be discussed today.

"Gentlemen." Voldemort calls the group to order and the room immediately falls silent. "Lady." He inclines his head toward Bellatrix. "Thank you for taking time out of your busy days to attend our little meeting."

Lucius winces. The Dark Lord is not in a good mood.

"Augustus, I believe you wish to bring up the first item on the agenda."

Lucius' eyes flick to Augustus Rookwood who wears his usual expression of disdain. "Thank you My Lord. I was disappointed to find that my application for additional funding for the Snatcher program has been rejected."

"Rejected!" Voldemort raises what might once have been an eyebrow. "I am indeed surprised to hear this, Augustus when I believe I have made it clear the Department for Magical Law Enforcement is to take priority over all other areas in our budgeting. Why was this application rejected, Lucius?"

Lucius grits his teeth. He is careful to allow not a hint of his irritation to show. "I apologise, My Lord, Augustus." He inclines his head politely in the direction of the latter. "I was not aware that the proposal had been rejected. My staff are currently under orders not to release any more funding during this fiscal year, however if the importance of the request had been highlighted to me I would have been happy to make the funds available." He delivers the lie without any indication that it is one. In truth, he has no idea how he is going to fund more snatchers. Rookwood's department is already bleeding the Ministry dry despite Lucius' best efforts. The man haemorrhages money. He might be an able fighter, but he is a terrible manager and, in Lucius' opinion, he should never have been put in charge of law enforcement or any other department.

"I do wonder if you might be able to make some savings though, Augustus?" He says carefully. "Perhaps I might review your spending and make some suggestions as to where economies might be made?"

"My Lord," Rookwood turns his scowling countenance toward Voldemort. "This is the sort of undermining behaviour I am constantly forced to endure. One might almost think that Lucius does not want Potter to be found considering his unwillingness to invest in the program designed to find him."

"Of course that is not the case, My Lord." Lucius forces a smile. "I am merely cognisant that we are not working with unlimited funds and there is no point in wasting money which might be put to good use expanding Augustus' excellent program even further." _Or investing in education, housing or infrastructure_, he adds silently. He knows Voldemort has little interest in any of these things.

"Tell me, Lucius," Voldemort's voice is deceptively soft, "why it is that the budget is so restricted? I thought you had the country's finances well under control."

"I can assure you that I am fully in control, My Lord." Lucius fights to keep an edge from his voice. "However, with the ongoing recruitment problems the collection of the year's taxes has been slower than we might have liked which has led to a temporary dip in our solvency."

"Yes, yes." Voldemort waves his hand in the manner of someone who has no desire to be troubled with extraneous details. "I believe I told you to solve that problem months ago."

"You did, My Lord, and everything is under control." Lucius grips his cane tightly beneath the table. This is the problem with following a dictator he has discovered. Voldemort might be the most powerful dark wizard ever to have lived. He may be visionary and charismatic. He is undeniably brilliant in his own way. But, he has no interest in the minutiae of running a country. His goal had been to rid the wizarding world of Muggleborns and he has achieved this with admirable efficiency. Many were killed during the war. Others have fled abroad, and those who remain have been housed in prison camps. This is all very well in principle, but no provision has been made to fill the gap these individuals have left in society. Numerous vital roles within the ministry have been left unfilled. Not to mention the vacancies left by all the half-bloods who also fled the country or went into hiding in protest over the treatment of their friends and families.

The government is now woefully understaffed and the prison camps themselves a huge drain on the ministry's resources. Despite living in, Lucius suspects, horrific conditions, the occupants need to be fed and clothed and guarded and the enforced labour they are mandated to perform doesn't actually have any useful outcome. Given his way, Lucius would have had them brewing potions or manufacturing magical goods. But the Dark Lord will have none of that. The Mudbloods are not permitted to do magic of any sort. Lucius has not pressed the matter. He hates Muggleborns as much as the next Death Eater, but he has no desire to see them wiped out in an act of genocide and he can't help but feel that, should he complain too loudly about their drain on society, Voldemort might just snap and kill them all.

He locks eyes with Voldemort and feels the dark wizard's none too subtle incursion into his mind. He keeps his thoughts placid and calm and projects confidence in his ability to manage the ongoing fiscal crisis. Apparently satisfied, Voldemort withdraws.

The meeting drags on and Lucius tries to keep his mind from wandering. He is reminded time and again how patently unsuited for office so many of his contemporaries are.

He feels Severus tense beside him and turns his attention back to Voldemort.

"And what of Hogwarts, Severus. Have you filled the vacant teaching positions?"

"Alas, my Lord, I have not. We still lack a suitably qualified arithmancer and we have no one to teach ancient runes. I am already teaching potions on top of my administrative duties." He speaks without inflection as if he is describing the weather, but Lucius can see the lines of strain around his old friend's mouth.

"Your attempts at international recruitment have not been successful?"

"Not as yet, My Lord."

"Then I suggest you try harder, Severus. The schooling of my loyal brethren's children is of the highest import.

"Of course, My Lord."

To Lucius' relief the focus shifts away from Severus and himself. They are not the only cabinet members to have failed in their tasks. Lucius wonders if the Dark Lord were always so blinkered. How can he not see that simply shouting will not achieve his means? Too often he asks the impossible. How could one of the greatest wizards of all time have such mastery of magic, but only the most basic grasp of economics and politics?

He says as much to Severus as they return by unspoken agreement to Hogwarts and Snape's liquor cabinet.

"I believe that the Horcruxes destroyed by Potter have eroded not just his soul, but also his mind," Snape replies before taking a healthy slug of firewhisky.

"Perhaps." Lucius takes a sip of his own drink. "I remember him being a rational man, clever, calculating." He takes another sip. "But I was young then. I was swayed by the influence of my father and a powerful wizard with a pretty face. Perhaps he was no more rational then than he is now and I simply did not see it." He knocks back the rest of his drink and holds out the glass for Severus to refill.

"Regrets, Lucius?" Severus asks. His voice is quiet.

Lucius meets his old friend's gaze head on. The silence between them has become charged.

Lucius is the first to look away. "Of course not. I am proud to serve our Lord in any way he sees fit."

"As am I."

Snape paces the headmaster's study before turning to look out of the window. Lucius studies his profile.

"You look tired."

"I am tired." Snape pushes a hand through his oily black hair and, for the first time, Lucius sees a glimmer of silver there.

"The headmaster's job is a full time one. Teaching potions as well leaves me with little free time." He gives a humorless smile and gestures at a pile of papers on the desk behind him. "Even now, I should be marking."

"And I should be pouring over the budget one more time trying to find a million galleons for Rookwood to squander." Lucius can't keep the vitriol from his voice.

"How bad is it?" Snape takes a seat again and aims his wand at the fireplace encouraging the flames higher.

"It's bad." Lucius leans closer to the fire's warmth. He has forgotten how perennially cold Hogwarts is.

"Can't you just shore up the economy with the Malfoy fortune?" Severus sneers.

Lucius ignores the barb. "Even the Malfoy fortune isn't that large. Besides," —he glances at Snape out of the corner of his eyes— "I'm siphoning as much of my personal wealth out of Britain as quickly as I can."

Snape raises an eyebrow. "To what end?"

"In case the Dark Lord hits on exactly the same solution as you, Severus. It is my role as head of the Malfoy family to preserve and enhance our fortune, not squander it on political regimes. Whatever happens to me, the money will be safe. For Draco, or Draco's children."

"You don't expect to survive then?"

Lucius shakes his head. "No, do you?"

Snape takes a moment to consider before he answers. "Every morning I am surprised by my own continuing existence. I am not a likeable man. Already, I can see the Dark Lords' guilt over my near death diminishing a little. A few more months of failure and even my heroic murder of an unarmed and sickly old wizard will be forgotten along with every other service I have done him over the last twelve years." Snape contemplates his drink. "No, I do not expect to survive."

They sit in a silence broken only by the snoring of headmasters and headmistresses past and watch the flames flicker around the Headmaster's study.

"Tell me Lucius" —Severus breaks the silence— "if you could kill one member of the inner circle, who would it be?"

Lucius shows his teeth in a malicious smile. "Anyone?" he clarifies.

"Anyone."

"And I can kill them without retribution or fear of discovery?"

Snape nods.

Lucius thinks carefully. This is the stuff of which fantasies are made. "You expect me to say Bellatrix, I know."

Snape inclines his head, but remains silent.

"But you know me, Severus. I'm a petty man. I do not forget when a man slights me. I chose Rookwood."

"Rookwood!" Severus sits up a little straighter. "Because he complained about you rejecting his funding? You _are_ petty, Lucius."

"It's not just that." Lucius makes himself comfortable in his armchair and takes another sip of his drink. His face is beginning to feel a little numb. "What I really object to is that he's stupid. And he's not stupid like Goyle is. At least Goyle knows he's stupid. Rookwood thinks he's intelligent."

"I cannot argue with that." Severus tops off both of their glasses again.

"How about you?" Lucius asks.

Severus ponders. "Bellatrix," he says eventually.

"Really?" Lucius is surprised. "I always thought you had a grudging admiration for her."

"I do, I suppose. She pursues her own insanity with a commitment most of my students can only aspire too. However, her husband is barely in the ground and the woman has been aggressively propositioning me." He gives a dramatic shudder. "Believe me, I have no desire to become involved in a physical relationship with her."

"I don't blame you." Lucius gives his own sympathetic shudder. "To the untimely death of Bellatrix and Augustus." He holds up his glass in a salute mirrored by Snape.

It is late when Lucius arrives home. The crack of his clumsy apparition is loud in the silence of the house. He makes his way upstairs somewhat unsteadily. It is a long time since he has allowed to himself to indulge and he knows he will pay for it the next day.

He enters his room with considerably more noise than usual and looks guiltily toward the corner. He expects the girl to startle awake with her usual look of martyred terror, but she doesn't stir. Now he comes to think of it he can't remember the last time he has actually seen her awake. Still, he thinks, Vera would have told him if she were dead.

Of their own volition his feet carry him across the room until he is standing over her.

She is an untidy sleeper. She lies in a tangled sprawl of long limbs and wild hair. Her arms are thrown up above her head and her nightdress has ridden up to expose a sliver of midriff. He doesn't normally allow himself to look at her. He knows it is not safe to acknowledge her in any way. If he wants to keep her out of his subconscious then he must treat her as he would any other piece of the furniture. But, if she is sleeping...well, surely then she can do him no harm? It can't hurt to observe her just this once.

He creeps a little closer.

In slumber, she has an air of delicate fragility about her that is concealed by her personality when she is awake. With all of her wild hair and youthful defiance she appears larger than life. Now, sleeping so deeply he can hardly see the rise and fall of her chest she appears wraith like. She is not beautiful. Not like Narcissa was. Not like he is. Her features are not extraordinary in any way. Yet, she is still arresting. The march of freckles across her tiny, pointed nose draws his eye. The slight pout of her lips as she softly exhales arouses feelings in him he has long repressed. And the paper thin translucence of her eyelids has him feeling oddly protective.

He can smell her again.

Her scent has changed. It is stronger with a feral undertone that he ought to find disgusting, but doesn't. It seems to be growing stronger by the second. It cuts through his drunken anaesthesia, awakens his senses, sets his nerve endings on fire. He cannot take his eyes off of her hair. It covers the mattress like a living, creeping vine. He wants to touch it, to dig his fingers into it to wrap it around his wrist and use it to pull her toward him…

He is kneeling beside the futon one hand outstretched toward her.

She mutters something and her eyelids flicker before she sighs softly and stills. It is enough though. The spell she had somehow cast over him in her sleep is lifted and Lucius lurches to his feet and stumbles away from her.

She is a succubus. There can be no other explanation. He is Lucius Malfoy, Patriarch of one of Wizarding Britain's oldest and most noble families. How can he harbour such feelings? How can he be drawn in such a base way to a creature so beneath him?

He retreats into the bathroom and splashes water on his face. It is not enough. He can still smell her. He can feel her skin against his and her hair on his wrists. He steps fully clothed into the shower and stands beneath the freezing jet of water until he is shivering so hard his teeth chatter.

Clad in his pajamas he hesitates at the bathroom door. This is his chamber. He is lord of the manor. It is bad enough that he has been driven from his home by the Dark Lord. He will not allow himself to be driven from his bedroom by a mere slip of a girl. He must be stronger.

He leaves the bathroom and slams the door behind him loud enough to jar the girl into wakefulness. She gives a cry of fright and immediately huddles into the corner her blanket pulled up to her neck. He turns his back to hide his smirk. If she continues to disturb his sensibilities then he will disturb her sleep.

But his petty attempt at revenge backfires. He is forced to lie in the dark listening to the rasp of her panicked, uneven breathing as his imagination unfettered by Occlumency and encouraged by alcohol provides him with a thousand lurid scenarios in which she is reduced to incoherent pants of pleasure rather than fear.

He does not sleep that night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you so much to wonderful Vitellia who made me re-write this chapter...twice...**

**Thanks to everyone who took the time to review. Your encouragement really keeps me going and some of you made me laugh out loud. **

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He would not have believed it possible, but she has found yet another way to torture him. He has successfully ignored her since the incident following his drinking session with Severus. And to call it an incident is to afford it entirely too much import. He has nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever he might have wished to do in his whisky induced state he refrained. He is not a blood traitor. He is simply a man. A tired, lonely man, forced to share close quarters with a reasonably attractive female. His reaction was a matter of mere biology. He has nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, he has barely spared her a glance since.

There has been a stillness about her for days, if not weeks, now. Lucius finds it hard to describe. But, on returning to his room at the end of the day, it has an untouched quality despite the fact that the girl is permanently in residence. She is asleep when he leaves and asleep when he returns and he sometimes thinks that she has not left the bed at all during his absence. This does not bother him particularly. He is trying his hardest to pretend that she is not there and it is much easier to achieve this end when she doesn't move or talk.

But now the elf is unhappy. As a rule Lucius does not have much time for elves. But he will admit to a certain fondness for Vera. She has served the family for a long time. When Lucius used to fall foul of his father as a boy it was often Vera who would sneak into the nursery with bruise salve and gentle hands. She took care of Draco when he was a baby and Lucius still remembers with some gratitude the relief on Narcissa's face when the shrieking infant would fall silent in the capable arms of the house elf. Vera is unswervingly loyal to the Malfoy family. She has never questioned their actions or their political affiliations. Lucius isn't even sure if she is aware of the outcome of the second wizarding war. She never refers to the wider political situation. She would never do anything to jeoporize her place in his home. Yet here she is, his most loyal of servants, grovelling at his feet, wringing her hands and pulling at her ears because "The little Miss is sleeping all the times, Master Lucius."

Apparently, the girl is refusing Vera's cooking and spending all day in bed. The elf seems to find this considerably less acceptable than Lucius. She is worried about the 'New Miss'. She is concerned that Miss Granger's unhappiness must be a reflection on the care offered by herself. Master Draco's Award is happy, but Master Lucius' Award is not. Perhaps she is needing to have a baby like the Miss Weasley?

Lucius quashes that suggestion very firmly. There will be no baby for Miss Granger. But he does find himself agreeing to deal with the problem and, as a result of this rather rash promise, he finds himself outside his bedroom door at three o'clock in the afternoon.

Lucius is a creature of habit and it is therefore unheard of for him to enter his sleeping chamber in the middle of the day. He will no doubt catch the girl unawares. Hopefully she will be doing something which he will be able to report back to Vera as evidence of her mental wellbeing and the whole thing will be forgotten.

The room is shrouded in semi-darkness. This in itself is odd as Lucius opens the curtains himself before leaving the room each morning. He enjoys taking in the vista over the gardens and valley below before he starts his day. Miss Granger must have closed them again after he left this morning. He steps into the room and looks over at her sleeping pallet. Her huddled form is visible beneath the blanket, a mop of curly brown hair peeps out from the top. Other than her slow rhythmic breathing she is completely still.

"Miss Granger." He crosses the room to stand over her. She doesn't move. "Miss Granger." He nudges her sleeping form with the toe of his boot. Her brown eyes open slowly and a small hand reaches up to rub at them.

"Hello, Mr Malfoy," she says through a yawn. She doesn't seem particularly surprised to see him. In fact, she doesn't seem particularly anything. Lucius is surprised at her lack of response. There is no sign of fear. She doesn't shy away from him as she has done in the past. She merely looks up at him with a blank expression on her face before her eyes begin to droop closed once more.

"Miss Granger, what do you think you are doing?"

Her eyelids stop their gradual descent. "Sleeping," she says hesitantly.

"At three-thirty in the afternoon?"

"Is it three-thirty?" She seems only mildly interested. "That's good to know. There isn't a clock." She looks vaguely around the room as if to highlight the lack of a timepiece.

"Why are you sleeping at any time of the day?" he snaps.

"Why does anyone sleep?" She gives a lying down shrug. "Because they're tired."

"What reason have you to be tired? You don't _do_ anything."

"I think you've hit the nail on the head." She gazes off over his left shoulder. "Doing nothing is so terribly tiring, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know."

Her eyes are focussed somewhere on the ceiling above him. "I don't think you're really here," she says after a moment's contemplation.

"Of course I'm here."

"You would say that, wouldn't you? If you were a figment of my imagination."

"Get up, Miss Granger."

She looks up at him with a placid stare.

"No, thank you."

"It was not a request."

"I know that. But you're not here, so I don't have to do what you say."

He reaches down and snatches the blanket from off her bed. She squeals at the sudden incursion of cold air and reflexively huddles into the fetal position. Lucius draws his wand.

"Need I remind you, Miss Granger, of the actions I was forced to take the day I encountered you in the forest? Now, if you do not wish for a repeat of those actions I suggest you get up."

"Alright, alright." She hauls herself inelegantly off the futon and stands shivering before him. She is dressed in a pair of oversized pyjamas which appear to have seen better days. They are rumpled and rather stained. Her hair is a dandelion head of frizzy curls and, whilst she does not smell as bad as she did the day he found her, there is a definite aroma of unwashed body about her. Lucius waits for her to say something, perhaps to enquire as to his intentions for her, but as she continues to gaze vacantly into the middle distance his patience is rapidly exhausted.

"I want you to take a bath."

"Why?"

"Because you smell."

"Do I?" She raises one arm and gives an inelegant sniff. "I suppose I do a bit." She shows none of the shame she exhibited over her appearance the first time they met. In fact, she seems disinterested in the entire conversation. Like a socialite at a party who is marking time waiting for a more exciting prospect to arrive.

"I have no wish to share my quarters with a vagrant," Lucius snaps.

She is examining a frayed hem along the edge of her pyjamas. The action lifts the fabric up enough to display the merest hint of skin. He averts his eyes. How dare she flaunt herself in front of him?

"I have no wish to share your quarters either." The statement is completely without malice. She picks absently at the hem. "You should put me somewhere else. Then you wouldn't have to smell me. And I wouldn't have to smell you either," she adds.

Lucius stares at her. He is rather at a loss. In all of their previous altercations he has had the ability to reduce her to a quivering heap merely by drawing his wand. But now she seems entirely without fear. It's as if someone has carved out the part of her brain responsible for mounting an appropriate response. He suspects he could drag her before Voldemort himself and she wouldn't bat an eyelid. It is odd and unsettling.

"Get in the bath, Miss Granger." He points his finger and fights back the feeling of arguing with a recalcitrant teenager. Draco was never this difficult.

"No." Her tone is not actually defiant. She sounds vague as if she is already thinking about something else.

Lucius reminds himself of the time that Vera carefully healed the open cuts on his back and backside after his father went after him with a riding whip. He had been too ashamed to confess to his mother that he had angered Father again, but the little elf had someone known where she was needed and had healed him without recrimination or the need for explanation. For some inexplicable reason the elf is fond of this girl and while she can rot in hell for all he cares he has no desire to upset Vera when it is in his power not to. With this in mind he steps forward and hoists her over his shoulder.

He expects her to resist; to scream and kick and bite. He is almost looking forward to the physical altercation. He is surprised and a little disappointed when she lies unresisting in his arms as he carries her into the bathroom and dumps her unceremoniously in the tub. He turns the tap on full without any consideration for her fully clothed state, but even this elicits nothing in response and he is forced to haul her up by her shoulders to keep her head above the rapidly rising water line.

The bath fills almost instantaneously and the room is filled with clouds of steam. He rubs the damp sleeve of his robes across his forehead. This is not how he envisaged this saga playing out. The girl lies motionless in the water her sodden pyjamas clinging to her slender frame. Her hair floats around her like a life raft.

"Well?" Lucius pointedly places shampoo and conditioner on the side of the bath. She ignores him and Lucius grits his teeth. She is trying to provoke him and succeeding. He will show her that he is above such things. He draws his wand and gives her his coldest stare.

"Would you prefer I use the technique I previously employed?" He wonders if she even hears the threat. She doesn't answer

And although her eyes are now fixed on his face he has the feeling that the glassy orbs, set far too deep in her thin face, are looking straight through him.

His fingers tighten around his wand and he gives it a threatening flourish. She doesn't even flinch. He opens his mouth to speak the incantation and then shuts it again.

When he discovered her in the forest she had been a commodity. Undesirable no.2. She'd had no identity, no feelings. He'd barely considered her a person. She had merely been another means to secure his position in the Dark Lord's hierarchy. But now, now she is Miss Granger. He knows her scent and the sounds she makes when she is sleeping. He finds her hair on his robes. He knows she is interested in Latin grammar and she was brave enough to take on a fully grown and armed wizard with only a pillow as a weapon. She is a person now.

With a defeated sigh he places his wand on the vanity unit next to the sink and removes his outer robes followed by his cufflinks. The girl watches as he rolls up his sleeves, but she doesn't speak.

Not quite believing what he is about to do, he kneels by the bath and begins the laborious process of wetting her hair. It is nothing like his own. As soon as one hank is weighed down another rises to the surface. It tangles around his hands and arms. He almost imagines it might drag him into the bath in an attempt to drown him. He supposes he could just grab her by the head and plunge her bodily under the water, but the same complex mixture of guilt and chivalry which prevented from employing the jet of freezing water also prohibits him from doing this. Working in the shampoo is even worse. Her hair seems impenetrable and he is forced to massage the soap into each segment of her scalp in turn. The girl ignores what he is doing so thoroughly that he wonders if she has fallen asleep again, but a glance down shows her staring blankly at the door.

He rinses the bubbles from her hair and reaches for the conditioner. It is only when she inhales deeply that he realises he has automatically reached for his own hair products rather than the unscented soap the girl is allowed to use. It is too late to back down, so he continues to work the conditioner through her hair until every strand is coated.

Finally he is finished. He sits back on his heels. He feels exhausted, as if he has gone six rounds in a wizarding duel. The front of his shirt is splashed with water and his own hair is more than a little damp.

The girl gives no indication that she has noticed any of these things. She continues to sit fully clothed in the water as if it is an everyday occurrence.

Hesitantly, he reaches for the soap. He could call Vera to come and finish the job, but he told the elf he would deal with the problem and he has no wish to admit his failure. He gives a small sigh. He has tried his utmost not to look at the contours of her body which are so wantonly displayed by the wet fabric. Again, he is struck by the juxtaposition time has wrought. When he stripped her off and hosed her down he had no interest in her naked form. He had looked at her with the same clinical detachment he might apply to a horse he was thinking of buying. Now, everything has changed and it is for this reason that he has no desire to remove her clothes. Much as he might long for a glimpse of the breasts which curve so enticingly beneath her pyjama top it feels wrong to examine them under these circumstances. He feels as if he is intruding like a lecherous old man in the locker room of a female Quidditch team.

"I'll do it."

Her soft voice startles him. As does her hand as it brushes against his when she takes the soap. Lucius stares at her as she sets aside the soap and begins to unbutton her pyjamas. A V of creamy white skin appears. He shouldn't still be here. The girl doesn't seem to care and begins to work on the second button. Lucius is jarred out of his reverie by the upper slope of her breast. He clears his throat loudly and turns his back.

He tries to ignore the fact that she is removing her clothing, but his fertile imagination supplies him with all sorts of images which are only encouraged by the wet sound of her pyjama top hitting the marble tiles. There are a few muted splashes and another sound indicates that she has removed her pyjama bottoms. He swallows heavily and begins to assemble the Ministerial accounts for the past quarter in his head.

"I'm finished."

_Thank Merlin._ He prays to every deity that he can think of that she will get out the bath unassisted and passes a towel behind him being careful not to look at her as he does so. There are some more splashing noises followed by the sound of water draining from the bath. After a few seconds her small, bare feet appear in his line of vision.

"Go back into the bedroom." He is surprised at how steady his voice sounds and even more surprised when the girl capitulates without argument. She returns to his room and stands beside her rumpled bed. Draped in the enormous bath sheet, her hair lank around her shoulders she looks small and vulnerable and Lucius is horrified to feel a twinge of sympathy. He flicks his wand in irritation transfiguring her towel into another shapeless robe and drying her hair into its usual wild halo. The girl flinches almost imperceptibly as his magic washes over her and he feels a sense of satisfaction that at least something he has done has affected her in some way.

"In a few moments I will summon Vera. She will change your bedding" —he looks with some disdain at her rumpled sheets— "and bring you a meal. From now on you will bathe every day and you will eat what you are served." He fixes her with the sort of glare that would have had his employees shaking in their shoes.

Miss Granger merely looks at him. "Or what?" she asks. Her head tilted to one side.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What will you do if I disobey you?" She looks supremely unconcerned, but he senses just a hint of vulnerability beneath her veneer of disinterest. As if the part of her which had been switched off is slowly coming back on line again.

It's a very good question. What will he do? He has no idea. He has certainly proven himself capable of a surprising degree of physical violence when it comes to her. But that was in the heat of the moment. Whilst he has no desire to lift a hand to her he still wants to punish her. He wants to see her as unbalanced and disconcerted as he is. He wants to rob her of her irritating dissociative calm. He wants her to feel as anxious and confused and frightened and ashamed as he does.

He steps into her personal space and takes one of her curls between his fingers. He pulls gently intrigued by the way it springs back from straight each time. She doesn't move or speak. Her only response to his proximity is a barely perceptible hitch in her breathing. "What are you most afraid of, Miss Granger?" He wraps the curl around his finger again and again until her head is immobilised. His lips are inches from hers. He can feel her breath on his face. It smells of toothpaste. The thud of her rapidly beating heart is audible in the silent room. She stares up at him.

"I'm not afraid of anything anymore," she says softly. "All my worst nightmares have already come true."

"Is that so?" He bends his head even closer. She doesn't pull away. In fact, he thinks her body sways toward his. He has forgotten where he is and what he's doing. His lips are millimetres away from the skin of her cheek and his nose brushes her curls, her unique, intoxicating scent swirls into his lungs like smoke from an expensive cigar. It is as if he is caught in a powerful magnetic field which draws him inexorably closer to her.

"Don't." Her body shudders and her eyes are pressed shut. He can see tears darkening the lashes.

It's as if he has been doused in cold water. What in Merlin's name had he almost done? Had he really been seconds away from kissing the Mudblood? No. It couldn't be. Crippling shame sours his stomach.

"You're going to do as I asked, aren't you?" His voice is harsh.

"Yes." She nods emphatically. Belatedly, he releases her and steps away. He feels lightheaded as if he has stood up too quickly.

"Vera."

The appearance of the elf breaks the odd mood that has settled on the room. She is delighted to find Hermione bathed and sets to quickly remaking the bed.

Lucius fixes Miss Granger with a gimlet eye. "I trust I will not have to intervene again, Miss Granger."

Her hands are clasped together in front of her and she clenches her fingers at the sound of his voice. "No, Mr Malfoy."

He inclines his head and leaves. He is desperate to get out of the room and away from _her_.

He stands outside the door to his bedchamber and finds his own heart is beating just as fast as he had heard hers. He had intended to unsettle the girl and obviously he has succeeded, but at what cost? He hadn't meant to touch her. He shouldn't want to touch her. And had he imagined the subtle sway of her body toward his? Is it possible that the unwelcome and hated attraction he is unable to deny is not entirely one sided? He shudders at the thought. He wants her to hate him. He needs her to hate him. It is imperative that they continue to hate each other, because the alternative is unthinkable.

**A/N Hermione's POV next chapter, I promise. **


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N I'm so so sorry that this update has taken so long. Lots of stuff going on in real life and then... horror of horrors...my laptop will no longer connect to the internet.**

**My laptop is older than 2/3 children so I'm not entirely surprised by this, but I don't quite know what to do. I can't stand the thought of buying a new one right now! I'm uploading this from the local library...there is no way I can access this site from a work computer. **

**Thanks as ever to Vitellia for her beta reading skills and general encouragement. Thanks also to my sick 7 year old who is watching the demon baby while I type this. **

**Apologies I haven't done a final check on this so it could be filled with errors - I'm convinced library users are looking over my shoulder and judging me! **

She is in the eye of the storm. Following her encounter with Lucius she is experiencing a clarity of thought of which she no longer thought herself capable. She is both relieved and terrified. She had thought that she was permanently damaged. That something had broken so badly inside her that her intelligence, the very essence of what made her Hermione Granger had been permanently removed. She had likened herself to an ex Olympic athlete who could only look back on their former glory with no hope of ever attaining such peaks again. Now she knows that is not the case. Her brain is still here, as agile as ever, just waiting for her to utilise it once more.

And she is terrified. Because the fog keeps her safe. Within its cloudy embrace nothing can truly harm her. She is cushioned from the horror of her circumstances. There is no need to mourn the death of her friends, to wonder about the horrors that are almost certainly ongoing beyond the walls of her prison. She is prevented from contemplating her own dark and painful future. She is reduced to only the most basic of functions like a laptop in safe mode and she is grateful for this. Nothing can truly hurt her when she is like this.

Her mind feels gloriously clear. She sits cross legged on the futon and revels in the ability to think. She wants to engage in mental gymnastics, to draw Arithmancy equations on the wall and scrawl ancient runes across the bedsheets. She hates that Lucius has caused this. It was not his threat of violence which awoke her. That would somehow be more acceptable. Instead, she was seduced by his actions and his intent. It felt suspiciously like kindness when he began to wash her hair and Hermione blossomed beneath his touch with no more control than a bud opening beneath the rays of the sun. Lucius' physical touch has temporarily awoken her. It has banished the black dog that has sat on her shoulder for the past few weeks. It has brought her back into herself. She could feel it as he washed her hair. As his large hands massaged the shampoo into her impossibly tangled curls the misery and helplessness begin to ebb away. All along had she merely needed to be touched? She isn't sure, but she could feel herself becoming more and more alive as he continued to tend to her.

There had been nothing sexual in his touch. She had noticed that he kept his eyes studiously averted from her body. She disgusts him. He has told her that enough times for the fact to have sunk in. Perhaps the sight of her naked body would have caused him to swoon like a Victorian lady. Even if his physical rejection was borne out of bigotry she was grateful for it. As he stripped away the layers of her depressive armour with his ministrations she felt herself become more and more vulnerable, more suggestible. She hungered for his touch. As he washed her hair she longed for more. She wanted his hands to cover every inch of her skin, to wash away the fear and isolation along with the dirt. There ought to be a mark she thinks. A brand. Perhaps a miniature version of the Dark Mark. Something to indicate that she has been tainted. But her skin looks no different.

Seeing his reluctance had been a slap in the face. A harsh reminder that whatever this was it was entirely one sided. She had taken the soap from him and washed herself not wanting to see the disgust on his face at being forced to sully himself further.

Hermione remembers, as a teenager, selecting a romance novel from her grandmother's bookshelf. It had been shocking reading. A young woman held captive by an older, powerful man had fallen under his spell and believed herself to be in love with him. She had endured any number of atrocities and excused his appalling behaviour all in the name of love. At the time Hermione had scorned the heroine. Stockholm syndrome was a myth, she thought. There was no way anyone could fall in love with someone so patently evil.

It is a premise she finds less easy to dismiss now. She is not _in love_ with Lucius Malfoy. Indeed, she still hates him. But today, he has exhibited traits she never thought to see. He has shown kindness and compassion. He has behaved in a manner which is not entirely self-serving. Hermione knows herself to be susceptible to these traits. Here, confined only to his room with no other person to talk to Lucius has become her world. Already, she depends on him. It would not take much to cross the line from dependence to fascination to…something more.

She _needs_ to hate him. Sometimes, it feels as if her hatred of him is the only thing anchoring her to reality. If she loses that, if she begins to tolerate him, or like him even, then she has nothing, she _is_ nothing. She is not Ginny. Ginny has forged some sort of alliance with Draco which appears to satisfy and benefit them both. Hermione knows instinctively that there can be no such arrangement between herself and Lucius. She senses that they have the capacity to cause each other untold amounts of damage. It would be like mixing bleach and vinegar. She and Lucius are such polar opposites that they are constantly at risk of a mutually catastrophic explosion.

She shudders and inhales deeply as she remembers the peculiar moment they had shared before Vera re-entered the room. He had been threatening her. His large body invading her personal space, her hair wound around his finger as it always was when he wished to control her. And then…she wasn't sure what had happened. He had been so close. She could still smell his cologne. She still felt the heat of his body. She had almost thought that he intended to kiss her. And she had begged him to stop.

She twists her head and digs her fingers into her eyes as she attempts to block out the painful memory. She hadn't asked him to stop because she hated him. It was not his touch that she couldn't stand. It was the horrible tangled maelstrom of emotions that he trailed in his wake. Lucius Malfoy could _hurt_ her. Not physically, she suspects she is immune to physical suffering. But he possesses the ability to delve into her psyche far deeper even than Voldemort and to undo her from the inside out. She cannot allow it.

Her time is almost done. The depressive clouds are gathering once more. Lucius somehow temporarily blew them away, but they are not so easily banished. She is almost grateful as she feels the sharpness of her mind begin to dull once more. She is too tired to analyse, to plan, to prepare. She doesn't know how to protect herself from Lucius and the threat of his insidious humanity. Better, she thinks, to skink back into the complacent fug of her dissociative stupor. As long as she obeys his commands he has no reason to interact with her. Their precarious status quo will be preserved and Hermione will, for the time being, be safe.

She is lying flat on her back staring up at the ornate ceiling rose. A spider is busy spinning its web between the plaster ornament and the chandelier and Hermione watches with interest as it works back and forth. She's never had the time to observe such a phenomenon before. Now she has all the time in the world. She plans to stay here all day until the web is complete.

The bedroom door clicks and she gives a sigh of irritation. What is Lucius doing back at this time? If he finds her actually enjoying herself he will be sure to spoil it. She imagines him fastidiously dusting away the spider and its web. Or maybe he will shout at her or threaten her with more terrible punishments. Maybe it's a pureblood spider and scum like her aren't even good enough to watch it spin its web. Perhaps he will throw her to his pet Acromentala. She prefers to demonise him. It is infinitely safer than considering the alternative.

"Miss Granger." The voice is not that of Lucius Malfoy. She recognises the hateful sarcastic tone immediately.

"Professor Snape." She doesn't bother to look away from the spider. She might miss something and she has seen enough of her ex-teacher to last a lifetime.

"What are you doing?" His head comes into view. Greasy hair hangs down and she can see up his nose as he peers at her. It is not his best angle.

"I'm observing," she snaps. "Please move. You're blocking my view."

Another groove appears between his already furrowed brows, but he moves a little to one side.

The spider has paused in its spinning and Hermione glances at Snape.

"Mr Malfoy isn't here," she says unnecessarily. "He's probably out torturing children or ripping the legs off of beetles...or buying hundreds of new books none of which he'll ever let me read." She stretches her back and wishes she'd put a pillow under it before she lay down. "I don't mean to be rude, Professor, but I really don't like you anymore so if you would just run along…" she makes a shooing gesture with one hand.

"I don't give a flying fuck whether you like me or not."

That penetrates Hermione's stupor just a little.

"You never used to say fuck in school."

"No, it would have been completely inappropriate to use profanities around innocent children."

"I think killing the headmaster was a little more inappropriate, don't you?"

"Miss Granger, what is wrong with you?"

She tilts her head back in order to see him better.

"I'm not precisely sure, but" - she holds up a finger as she thinks- "I believe I may be experiencing a dissociative state. I rather like it."

Snape pinches the bridge of his nose in a manner which would once have horrified her. She finds it hard to believe that there was once a time when this man's approval meant everything to her. "Congratulations, Miss Granger. You appear to have rendered yourself even more irritating as an adult than you were as a schoolgirl. I would not have thought it possible."

"Oh anything is possible." She gives him a look which she hopes conveys her disappointment and sorrow. "I really thought you were on our side. Even when Ron and Harry kept insisting I was wrong and calling you a greasy git I defended you." She returns her gaze to the spider. "I really hate being wrong."

"I can only apologise for causing this crisis of confidence

"That's not true," she interrupted him. "You could make amends by dramatically switching sides at this point and rescuing me from this hell hole."

Snape looks pointedly around the comfortably furnished room. "Yes, I can see you are truly suffering."

Hermione whips her eyes away from the spider and sits up so quickly she gives herself a head rush.

"It has been seventy-three days since I left this room," she tells him. "The only person I have spoken to in that time is Lucius Malfoy."

"I apologise," Snape says dryly. "That does sound like torture."

"My last conversation with Lucius was a week ago," she continues as if he hasn't spoken. "He insisted I get up and wash because he found sharing his accommodations with a vagrant more than he could endure. It's a unique complaint, Professor, I realise that, but I may just be the first person to actually die from boredom." She returns to her position on the floor.

"Well, before you expire I need your help."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have a project with which I require your assistance."

"Sorry," -she waves a dismissive hand- "you must have forgotten, I don't know anything. Whatever cunning plan you and your little Death Eater chums have come up with you can count me out. I'm useless - it's been verified" -she taps her head- "by your boss."

"This has nothing to do with Potter." He says Harry's name with as much disdain as always. "I require the deductive power of your brain not the information contained within."

"Oh." Hermione thinks for a moment. "There's just one small problem, two actually...no three!"

"Why don't you enlighten me, Miss Granger?"

Hermione ticks off the points on her hands. "One: Mr Malfoy will never allow it; he's enjoying my slow and gradual descent into insanity. Two: I don't want to do anything that contributes to your cause, and three: I really am very vexed at you personally. So I'm just going to lie here like Robert the Bruce and watch this spider until I'm as mad as Bellatrix."

She lies herself back down and stares up at the ceiling. The spider is gone its half built web flaps sadly in the breeze her movement has created.

"Fucking brilliant," she mutters.

She is startled by a loud thump followed by several smaller ones. Snape has dropped a briefcase on the floor next to her.

"Open it," he commands.

Hermione shoots him what she hopes is a mutinous look. She finds Snape much easier to defy than Lucius. She is shocked out of her complacency by his wand at her throat.

"Don't try my patience, girl. Open the briefcase."

Hermione glares at him. "Fine. But if some horrible animal jumps out and bites me I'll be even more disappointed in you than I was before."

He folds his arms and glares down his nose at her.

"Okay okay, I'm doing it."

Gingerly, she unclips the briefcase and leans back as she flips up the lid. It is immediately obvious that the case has been magically extended. It contains a layer of books; potions books. She removes them slowly examining the titles as she does so. Beneath the first layer there is another and another. By the time the briefcase is empty there must be almost one hundred books stacked around her along with several piles of parchment.

"Are you trying to buy my loyalty," Hermione asks as she clutches _Most Potente Potions_ to her chest, "because it's working."

Snape smirks. "No. I'm merely showing you the research material which would be made available to you should you wish to accept my task."

"Alright I'll bite. What's the task?"

"I need someone to rewrite the Hogwarts potions curriculum for first through third year."

Hermione is momentarily taken aback. "You're still headmaster?"

"Obviously."

She strokes one of the books lovingly. "Why me? You know all this yourself."

"It may surprise you to learn, Miss Granger that with running the school plus the brewing requirements placed on me by The Dark Lord I am rather busy. The school is also without a potions master at present. Hence the reason I am searching for someone else to draft a new curriculum. Do you accept?"

"Mr Malfoy-"

"You may leave Lucius to me."

There isn't much to think about then. She will have access to all the lovely books and something to do other than stare at the ceiling. "Yes, I accept."

"Good. The current curriculum is outlined here." He gestures to one of the bundles of parchment. "And my suggestions regarding a number of changes are here. How long do you think the rewrite will take you?"

She eyes him speculatively. She wants to prolong the task for as long as possible in order to give herself time to read all the books. She could probably do the whole thing in a week if she pushed herself. It's not as if she has anything else do to. "A month?" She offers.

Snape scoffs. "I'll give you two weeks."

"Deal." She finds herself smiling at him and quickly hides the expression. "Why are you doing this, Professor?" she asks instead.

"I thought I made my reasons quite clear."

She shakes her head slowly. "There are a hundred people you could ask to do this." She chews her lip. "But why would _you_ help _me_?"

"Why indeed?" Snape looks as if he is about to leave. "Do not flatter yourself that I have any concerns for your mental health, Miss Granger."

"No of course you don't." She springs to her feet feeling suddenly energised. "But Ginny does."

"Miss Weasley is also not high on my list of priorities. Goodbye, Miss Granger, I shall see you in two weeks."

"Wait!"

He pauses his hand resting on the door handle.

"It's Draco isn't it? You _do_ care about him, he's your godson."

Snape neither denies nor confirms her statement he merely regards her with his strange black eyes. "Draco desires that nothing cause any upset to Miss Weasley when she is so close to her confinement." The closest thing to a smile she has ever seen flits across his lips. "Such concern becomes him, I believe."

"Thank you, Professor."

He inclines his head and opens the door.

"Oh, Professor?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think anybody actually refers to a woman's confinement anymore."

He leaves without another word and Hermione is left alone surrounded by books. She feels a broad grin stretching her face. She would never have guessed that the ferret and Professor Snape would have been the ones to rescue her from herself.

**A/N 2 Just a warning - I'm not sure when I'll be able to update again. Also the next instalment is only 1000 words, but it really needs to stand alone so I will publish it on its own, but don't get too excited. No point in making a cup of tea before you read it, it will be over before it's cool enough to drink! **


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N I can only apologise for this ridiculously short chapter. Not only is it short, but it is un-beta'd and practically unedited. My IT problems remain unsolved. I promise the next chapter is a whopper - just not quite sure how I'm going to get it out there yet! Thank you for all your lovely reviews - they make me smile. **

Lucius is engrossed in a set of accounts when a nervous looking house elf pops into his study.

"The Hogwarts' Headmaster is being here, Sir," he says with a nervous tug of his ears.

Lucius frowns. He's busy and not in the mood for visitors.

"Show him in, Buttons." One does not really say no to Severus snape.

The ex-potions master billows in with his usual flair and Lucius resists an eye roll. Surely he has known Severus long enough that theatrics are no longer necessary.

"Severus," he says as cordially as possible. "What can I do for you?"

"Are you aware that Miss Granger is going mad?" Severus asks without preamble.

Lucius frowns. "How would you know?"

"I've just been to see her."

"On whose authority, Severus? I was under the impression that Miss Granger was my prize. You have your own pureblood witch at your disposal. Why not entertain yourself with her?"

"Because my prize is not going insane," -he hesitates- "admittedly, she may not have been quite sane to begin with. And it was on Draco's authority that I visited Miss Granger. Miss Weasley is worried about her friend."

Lucius emits a long sigh. why did people always feel the need to meddle?

"she's absolutely fine," he says shortly. "Other than a propensity to sleep all day. I imagine all Mudbloods are equally lazy."

"Miss Granger is one of the most diligent and studious witches I have ever known She is many things, but lazy is not one them. and please don't use that word in front of me, Lucius, you know it makes me want to hex you."

It's my house, Severus."

Snape merely scowls until Lucius raises a hand in capitulation. "Fine, i thought all Muggle borns were equally lazy. What makes you think the girl is going mad?"

"She is not at all herself. Do you know how long she's been here?"

Lucius shrugs. "A few weeks, I'm not sure."

"Seventy-two days."

"I fail to see the significance of the exact figure."

"Have you ever stayed in the same room for seventy-two days with nothing to do but stare at the walls? and when was the last time you engaged her in conversation?"

"I don't want to engage her in conversation. I'm her gaoler, not her bloody nursemaid. Besides I shouted at her last week."

"I think she may need a little more stimulation than a fortnightly shouting."

Lucius looks down at his ledger. He is not enjoying this conversation at all. there is a prickling of something around the edges of his conscience. It feels horribly like guilt. He can hardly explain to Severus that he is afraid of the girl, can he? He would never live it down. He decides to continue with his facade of indifference.

"I admit that being confined to my chambers without any company must be a little on the tedious side, but it would hardly drive one to madness, surely."

It is Severus' turn to shrug. "Who can say how we might respond in any given situation? I only know what I have seen. tell me, what did Miss Granger do when you first captured her?"

"She fought me. Do you know the little harridan tried to kill me in my sleep?"

"I'm not particularly surprised." Severus taps his lips thoughtfully. "She always had a vindictive streak."

"You might have warned me."

"What for? You're still alive, aren't you? Anyway, how does she behave now?"

"She seems to spend a lot of time staring into space. Are you truly basing your diagnosis of her insanity on her ceasing in her attempts to kill me?"

"I believe she has given up."

"Rightly so, she was never going to succeed."

"At life, Lucius. I believe she has given up at life. Have you noticed how thin she is? She has barely gained any weight since you brought her here."

"I haven't actually, Severus. I try to look at her as little as possible." This wasn't exactly a lie. He did try not to look at her. He omitted to mention the fact that he was not always successful in this endeavour.

"What exactly is the point of this conversation?" Lucius shuffles the papers on his desk. "I'm a busy man and you're starting to irritate me even more than usual."

"You know the Dark Lord didn't just give you Miss Granger out of the goodness of his heart. Even if you are his favourite."

"I'm not his favourite. We both know you are."

"Perhaps," Severus allows graciously. "I am not here to debate who is currently held in our master's highest esteem. It would be foolish of either of us to underestimate him. Do you truly believe he gave you the girl as a reward?"

Lucius feels a little stung. "I hadn't given it much thought," his voice sounds stiff even to his own ears. "It is not out with the realms of possibility that the Dark Lord should wish to reward me for my considerable efforts on his behalf."

"It is possible, but improbable." Snape gives him a calculating look. "Don't you think it is more likely that he entrusted her to you because he wished her to remain relatively unharmed?"

"What makes you say that?"

"She is Potter's best surviving , she has no useful intelligence, but she might be used for leverage at some point. She is of little use to us if she is insane, maimed, or dead."

"I suppose. She wouldn't have lasted long with Bella. She has an exceedingly smart mouth."

"Indeed."

Lucius considers for a moment. "I think Potter is beyond trying to rescue his friends though. He has made no attempt to reach Miss Weasley and she has been here for two years."

Snape shrugs again. "Things may change."

Lucius' intuition prickles. "Do you know something, Severus?"

"Of course not, and if I did I wouldn't tell you. Now, I have given Miss Granger a job. I want you to allow her to complete it."

"What sort of a job?"

"Preparing some educational materials for me. Nothing ground breaking, nothing that will allow her to do any harm. It's the sort of tedious research that would make me want to stab myself in the eye, but she will find thoroughly satisfying."

Lucius feels a flicker of jealously that Severus would know how to thoroughly satisfy his prisoner. Even if it is via the medium of tedious research projects.

"I suppose there is no harm in it," he allows. He wishes he could raise some sort of an objection.

"Good, I've already given her the necessary materials."

"One day you really will overstep."

Snape smirks. "I believe that day has already come."

A/N Sorry! short I know and probably full of horrifically spliced commas!


	14. Chapter 14

A/N Sorry this has taken me so long to edit. Thank you, as always for all of your lovely reviews. I'm so sorry I've not managed to reply to everyone. I have the best of intentions, but not nearly enough time. Thanks to my lovely beta, Vitellia who turned this round so quickly.

Lucius regrets giving in to Severus as soon as he opens his bedroom door. Not that there was ever really question of him denying his old friend's request. Lucius is not immune to gratitude and he knows that he will forever be in Severus's debt for protecting Draco when he, Lucius, could not. Furthermore, Severus is the only wizard within the inner circle who can currently compete with Lucius for Voldemort's favour. It irritates him that killing one elderly wizard almost three years ago ranks higher than his own contributions, but the Dark Lord has no head for economics. He has only the vaguest understanding of exactly what Lucius does for him. The fact that he rates Severus's efforts above those of Lucius only highlights why Lucius is so vital to the entire Death Eater administration in the first place.

Either way, the outcome is the same. He will not say no to Severus.

But when he enters his bedroom to find it bearing more than a passing resemblance to the Hogwarts library during OWLs week he wishes he had.

His usual pristine space has been thoroughly defiled. There are books everywhere extending far beyond the corner of the room the girl usually occupies. They are laid open or in piles or individually with no obvious order to their placement. In the midst of the chaos sits the girl. She is cross legged with a huge tome open on her lap and another beside her. She is leaning slightly sideways to scribble on a piece of parchment. Her position looks most uncomfortable.

She has scraped her hair up on top of her head. Lucius wonders briefly how she secured it there since he has provided her with no hair accessories. Then he sees the tip of a broken quill peeking out of the birds nest. The unfortunate style has the unwelcome side effect of highlighting the long elegant sweep of her neck and Lucius has an overwhelming urge to sink his teeth into the white skin at its nape and bite down hard.

But the most irritating, most infuriating thing of all, far worse than the mess, or the dust in the air or her beautiful elegant neck or the smudge of ink on his priceless carpet is the fact that she doesn't even glance in his direction. She continues to work as if she has not even taken note of his entrance. It is of no consequence to Lucius that he has ignored her for weeks. She is _his_. It is his prerogative to pay her attention as he chooses. She on the other hand should bloody well look at him when he enters the room.

He storms into the bathroom and slams the door behind him.

By the time he has completed his ablutions he expects that she will have made some effort to tidy up and prepare herself for sleep. But, on his exit, she is sitting exactly as she was before. Although now, instead of writing, she is chewing absent-mindedly on the end of her quill. For a moment he is held hostage by the sight of her small white teeth persistently gnawing at the already shredded feathers. They fascinate him. Just as every aspect of her now fascinates him. Her grinding teeth are a metaphor for the way her very presence is destroying his sense of self. He cannot bear it.

He lets out a huff of annoyance which goes ignored and climbs into bed with the book he is now forced to remove from his own bedside table each night. He extinguishes the candles around the room with a muttered "_Nox_." His reading orb is now the only source of illumination in the otherwise darkened bed chamber. He watches with interest to see how the girl will respond. She looks up irritably and gives a tiny start when she realises he is in the room. Then she glances down at her book. She puts aside the parchment and quill and he feels an enormous sense of satisfaction in having disturbed her. Finally, she will be forced to acknowledge his presence. Satisfaction is quickly replaced by rage when, instead of quietly lying down as she ought to, she inches closer and angles the pages of her book to catch the light from his reading orb.

The audacity! How dare she use his light to read by? He grips the pages of his book so hard that the paper tears and somehow, in his haste to smooth it out again he gives himself a paper cut. Several drops of blood land on his Egyptian cotton sheets before he is able to stem the flow. He stares at the blossoming stains. Still, the girl ignores him. He reads for his prescribed half hour. More accurately, he pretends to read whilst he allows anger and resentment to fester in his chest. After his time is up he takes great pleasure in plunging the room into darkness without so much as a word of warning. He hears quite clearly her soft sigh of irritation before a number of muffled thumps and bumps which presumably signify she is clearing a space to sleep amongst her books.

He dreams of her that night. He is fucking her in a library. She is wrapped around him like a vine as he pounds into her against the shelves. Around them, books tumble like confetti. She is pleading with him for more. She wants him faster and deeper even though the whole room appears likely to come down around them at any moment.

He wakes up sweating and harder than he has ever been before in his life. He turns onto his front and thrusts helplessly against the sheets. It is far too early to get up, but he is desperate for the relief he is now forced to take in the shower each morning. He looks over at the girl. He can barely even make out her shape in the dim moonlight that filters through the curtains. If he can't see her then she can't see him and besides, her breathing indicates that she is still deeply asleep. He shouldn't, not with her in the room. He shouldn't even want to. He should be so offended by her presence that arousal is the last thing on his mind.

He fixes his eyes on her sleeping body and reaches down to palm his cock. The touch of his hand through the silk of his pyjamas is exquisite and he strokes himself with long leisurely movements imagining it is her hand beneath his; that he is guiding her in how to pleasure him and she is looking up at him with those big brown eyes that are just so eager for any form of instruction. He wants to prolong the moment. He is so unbelievably aroused he wishes he could bask in the pleasure for a little longer, but already he can feel his orgasm racing toward him. He holds himself a little more firmly and imagines thrusting into her mouth, his cock hitting the back of her throat as her small hands scrabble against his thighs and the vision is enough to push him over the edge. He comes with a soft gasp which he muffles as best he can with his pillow. It seems to go on forever and he arches his back and rides the wave of ecstasy too far gone to really care if she observes him or not. Finally, he comes down from his high and glances nervously in her direction. She is still motionless and breathing steadily in her sleep completely unaware that she has been thoroughly debauched. He grips his wand beneath his pillow and casts a quick _Scourgify_ before he finally falls asleep once more.

Hermione wakes suddenly. Something has disturbed her and she lies completely still forcing herself to breath regularly as she considers what it might have been. The sound comes again. It is Lucius. He is tossing and turning in his sleep. The covers are pushed down to his hips and his pyjama top has ridden up a little. There is a chink in the curtains next to his bed and a sliver of moonlight shines through and illuminates a strip of his pale abdomen. His eyes spring open and Hermione quickly narrows hers and feigns sleep. Her corner of the room is the darkest and she is certain he will not be able to tell she is awake. He rolls onto his front and flexes his hips against the mattress. Hermione feels herself blush in the darkness as she realises what he is doing. He shifts again and she sees him look in her direction before he shifts onto his side and his hand reaches down below the blanket. He isn't...he wouldn't...she feels an unfamiliar tightness in her belly as his hand begins to move...he is.

She can't understand quite why she finds what he is doing so arousing. She should be disgusted or offended or even afraid. But instead, she cannot look away. She strains her eyes in the near darkness desperate to make out the expression on his face. His hand moves a little faster and he arches his back and gives a soft gasp a look of blissful agony on his beautiful face. Hermione feels an answering heat between her own thighs. Who knew that she was such a voyeur? Suddenly, more than anything, she wishes she could touch herself. Keeping her eyes fixed on Lucius she inches her fingers across her thigh and slips them under the elastic of her knickers. She is soaking wet and her clitoris is hard and swollen. Her body hungers for satisfaction with an urgency she is not sure she has ever experienced before. She drags a finger through her sex and strokes it experimentally over her clitoris. She shudders. The stab of pleasure that shoots through her with that simple action is too much. She will not be able to remain silent if she brings herself to orgasm. She cups her aching sex and watches with frustration as Lucius gives a muffled groan and stills. It is a long time before sleep claims her again.

When morning comes and Lucius makes his way toward the bathroom she half wonders if the whole thing was a dream. As usual, he spares not a glance in her direction. There is no evidence of lust or guilt on his aristocratic face and his pyjama bottoms are completely clean. Perhaps she imagined the whole thing.

With a start she remembers the events of the previous day and all thoughts of Lucius and his nocturnal activities are banished from her mind. Her mind which now seems to be functioning at its usual hundred miles per hour. She sits up and stares around her at the books amongst which she slept the previous night. She feels cleansed. As if her hours of reading the day before have purged her soul. There is guilt too. How can she be so shallow? The world is no less terrible than it was the day before. Her situation is no less perilous. Indeed, she is now actively helping the enemy. And yet, she feels hope for the first time in months. She has a sense of purpose, a reason for being. The knowledge that Hogwarts still exists and is still filled with children in need of instruction is a balm to her previously bruised soul. She will complete this task to the best of her ability. Perhaps it will lead to more. More books. More responsibility. More opportunities. She admits that she is kidding herself. She would be satisfied with just the books. They are a talisman against the fog. If she has them she can be herself. She reaches for the nearest volume and begins to read.

She doesn't even realise Lucius has emerged from the bathroom until a very expensive pair of shoes appear next to her bed.

"Get up and get dressed." His voice is cold and brooks no argument. She hastily puts her book aside and scurries into the bathroom. She wonders what he wants. Other than the time he told her she needed to wash; the memory still makes her blush, he has never shown any interest in her daily routine. She hopes he isn't going to do something terrible, like take her back to Voldemort.

She is as quick as she can be in washing and dressing, but he is still tapping his foot impatiently when she emerges from the bathroom. He is the picture of pureblood sophistication in his dark grey robes his snake topped cane held loosely in his right hand. His appearance is one of well groomed urbanity. There is no way she witnessed him masturbating the night before. It must have been a dream. She shakes her head in an attempt to dispel the disturbing mental imagines. Her eyes focus on Lucius's left hand, in which he holds Snape's briefcase and she realises to her horror that all of her books and papers are missing.

"My things?" She starts forward and then stops herself from coming too close to him.

"They are in here." He holds up the briefcase.

"But I need them. Professor Snape said—"

"I do not care what Severus said. I only care that you have turned my bedroom into a pigsty." He shoots her and her unmade bed a look of pure disgust. "Follow me." He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.

Hermione trails behind him marvelling at the smooth waterfall of his platinum hair down his back. Then she is distracted simply by the fact that she is no longer in his bedroom. They are walking along a high gantry which is lit by the sun shining through a large cupula. Over the bannister she can see a grand entrance hallway with black and white tiles and a curving staircase leading up to the far end of the gantry.

"This isn't Malfoy Manor," she says without thinking.

He stops so abruptly that she walks into his back. She yelps and tries to back away somehow tripping over both of their robes. His hand shoots out to steady her and his fingers burn into her arm.

"Sorry." She dares to raise her eyes to his and has no idea how to interpret the expression she finds there. He is looking at her in a way that is penetrating...almost hungry. Then he abruptly releases her and takes a step back.

"Whatever made you think we were in Malfoy Manor?" He brushes his robes off as if she might have transferred some dirt onto them.

She shrugs. "Well, you and Draco are here…"

His expression is shuttered as he says, "My family home is otherwise occupied. This house belonged to my mother's family." He glances around. "It is adequate, I suppose."

Hermione blinks. So he has a manor in Wiltshire, a baronial mansion in the Forrest of Dean and a stately home in… "Where are we?" she dares to ask.

"Yorkshire," he answers with obvious distaste and begins to walk again.

She wants to ask where they are going but she suspects she has probably pushed him as far as it is safe to for one day. So she follows in silence, turning her head this way and that to take in the white walls and family portraits. Lucius's mother's family seemed a lot less grumpy than the Malfoys. Some of the portraits even smile at her as she passes.

They almost the entire length of the gantry before Lucius stops outside an unmarked door. He taps it with his wand and it swings open. He stands aside to let Hermione enter before him. She grips the fabric of her robes tightly in one hand as she crosses the threshold. It's going to be a torture chamber, she just knows it. Although, the house seems too light and lovely to contain anything so horrible. Then again, it contains Lucius who is himself beautiful on the outside, but quite rotten internally. Her internal monologue is cut off swiftly as she enters the room.

It is small and functional with white wallpaper patterned with blue roses. A single bed with a painted wrought iron frame takes up most of one wall with an armoire at the end. Against the other wall is a small dressing table and an empty bookcase. Lucius drops the briefcase onto the blue counterpane of the bed and uses his wand to enlarge the desk. Hermione is impressed at the ease with which he transfigures things.

"You may use this room for your research." He scowls at her. "I will not have you cluttering up my personal space with your accoutrements. The bathroom is there" —he indicates toward a door on the far wall— "and the elves will serve your meals here. When you are ready to leave you may call for Tippy and she will guide you back to my chambers."

Hermione looks around, trying to conceal her delight. The room is quite lovely and the decent sized window affords a beautiful view across some rolling moorland.

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy."

"Do not thank me," he hisses with vitriol. He turns on his heel and leaves the room, his face a mask of rage. Hermione spends a few moments staring at the door he has slammed beside him. She cannot understand him. He is the very definition of mercurial. She wonders how Mrs Malfoy tolerates him.

Mrs Malfoy! She can't believe she hasn't even thought of the woman. Lucius is here. Draco and Ginny are here. Where on earth is Lucius's wife? Is she so dedicated to the cause she has remained behind at Malfoy Manor in order to be close to Voldemort? Hermione remembers that Bellatrix had an unhealthy obsession with him. Perhaps it is familial. What a strange marriage she and Lucius must have that she is comfortable with her husband sharing his quarters with a Mudblood. There is something in this that she doesn't like and she deliberately turns her attention away from the Malfoys, their marriage, and where Lucius sleeps.

The day flies by. She forgets to eat lunch, only remembering when an elf appears with her dinner which she wolfs down whilst reading. Reviewing the old curriculum brings back so many happy memories she, at times, finds herself close to tears. Each potion she brewed reminds her of Harry or Ron or Neville and his ever exploding cauldron. She wonders how he is and if he is still sane or if Bellatrix has tortured him into the same state as his parents.

When it gets dark the candles in the room automatically light themselves and she happily continues with her reading and notetaking. She is so engrossed in her work that she cries out in terror when the door is abruptly ripped open with such force that it swings back against the outside wall. Lucius stands in the doorway dressed in his pyjamas, blue today, she notes nervously. His usually handsome face contorted with rage.

"What is the meaning of this?" he thunders as he strides across the room and pulls her to her feet.

_Shit_, she thinks, _he's finally lost it_. "But, Mr Malfoy, you said I could use this room for my research." She gestures back at the room they are rapidly leaving behind as he drags her down the corridor.

"Did I not also say that you should summon an elf to escort you back to my room?" He pauses to open the bedroom door then pulls her through.

"Well, yes" — Hermione rubs her upper arm which he has now released— "But you didn't give me a time frame. I was reading and I wasn't ready to stop." With retrospect her tone is perhaps a little more belligerent than is wise, but he has frightened her and fear is now rapidly converting itself into anger.

"You weren't ready to stop." He moves right into her personal space and she takes an anxious gulp of air. "I thought I had made it quite clear, Miss Granger that this house does not operate for your convenience. This is not some sort of Muggle holiday camp. How dare you presume to disturb my sleep by coming in and out of my chambers at any time of the day or night."

Hermione blinks. The man is terrifying, but he is also wrong, so wrong. She ought to just be quiet and apologise, but she can't.

"I can come and go any time I damn well please," she snaps back at him. "If you're so old and in need of sleep that you can't cope with me staying up later than you then I suggest you let me sleep in the other room. There's a perfectly good bed there."

Two spots of colour have appeared on his pale cheeks and Hermione thinks rather belatedly that she might have gone too far. She braces herself for him to grab her neck again, but he doesn't touch her although his face is now only centimetres away from hers.

"Why can't you get it into your thick head that you are my possession?" he enunciates very slowly. "I own you. You are mine to do with exactly as I please and it pleases me that you not interrupt my routine." He shouts the last part and Hermione feels his hot breath wash over her face.

"Fuck your routine, you sanctimonious prick," she shouts back right into his face.

And then she doesn't know what happens. She doesn't know who moves first. It isn't her but it doesn't seem to be him either. One moment she thinks he is going to punch her and the next they are kissing in a frantic furious joining of tongues and lips and teeth that has absolutely nothing to do with affection and everything to do with domination. He has backed her into a wall and his large body is pressed against hers. Her hands are in his hair. She yanks furiously at the silky locks and he moans. The sound reverberates through her and she trembles with unwilling lust. Lucius's hips grind into hers and she pushes back. She will not give him an inch. His hand is on her waist his fingers pressing with bruising force into her soft skin and she digs her nails into his scalp in retaliation. She arches her back, desperate to get as close to him as possible and he reciprocates by tightening his grip still further. Finally, the ferocity of the kiss becomes so overwhelming that neither of them can breathe. They break apart, gasping for air.

Before she has time even to think about what she is doing, Hermione slaps him. Her blow has enough force behind it that his head swings back in a manner which might have been comical under different circumstances. He slaps her back so quickly it must have been a reflex. Pain blossoms across her cheek and fireworks briefly explode behind her eyes, but Hermione barely register the sensation. She is brought to her knees by a crushing pain in her chest and she realises she has broken her wand oath. She moans and presses her hands against her breast bone. She can feel her heart fluttering inside her as the iron band of her broken promise tightens around it. Then the pain is gone. She has survived the oath's punishment and she looks up at Lucius. He is staring at her with a look of abject horror, his hand pressed to his own reddened cheek. He takes a deep shuddering breath and backs away as if afraid she might turn on him once more.

Hermione blinks and swallows as she desperately tries to make sense of what she has done. She stares up at Lucius who has become as pale and frozen as an ice sculpture. Only the rapid rise and fall of his chest indicates that he is still alive.

"But...but...you're married," she stammers.

He lets out a hoarse bark of laughter. The sound appears to surprise him as much as it does her.

"And that is really what concerns you the most?" His voice is barely more than a whisper.

Hermione doesn't know what to say and she's not sure he expects an answer anyway. She has given Narcissa remarkably little thought over the past few weeks. Initially, she was too afraid to wonder at the absence of Lucius' beautiful wife. And laterally, she has been too caught up in her own fuge to even wonder about her. But now, with the imprint of his mouth against hers she feels a stab of guilt. This man belongs to someone else. She closes her eyes briefly and shakes her head. This is not the sort of situation she ever envisaged herself getting into. She has no idea who she is anymore.

"My wife is dead." His face is a mask of agony. Another pain stabs through Hermione's chest and her heart flutters once more. She balls her fists between her breasts as if to hold the organ in place. By the time she looks back at Lucius he has schooled his features once more into something that at least resembles his impassive mask.

"I'm sorry."

Anger moulds his lips into a snarl. "I neither seek not appreciate your sympathy, Mudblood."

The words sting as they were intended to and, still kneeling, Hermione flinches away from his rage. He stares down at her his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides his teeth gritted. Finally, he turns away. "Go to bed," he mutters before he turns on his heel and disappears into the bathroom. He slams the door behind him.

**A/N Can I just say to Zeeksmom and anyone else who still hates him, I'm well aware that Lucius is still a grade A asshat! And Hermione knows it too... he has a long journey ahead of him still. **


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N Thank you, as always to my wonderful beta reader and friend, Vitellia. **

**This chapter is a little rushed. I wanted to read through it again, but the demon baby (more a demon toddler now) has woken from her nap 60 mins early and if I don't post this now I don't know when I will. Sorry the spacing changes halfway through - I spliced two documents together. **

She has ruined everything.

He sees the landscape of his life cataclysmically altered. Everything has changed and he despises her for it even as he despises himself. For years he has considered himself somehow above those who have served beside him. He has considered himself to be one of only a handful of wizards who are truly committed to the cause. So many of the others simply use it as an excuse for murder, torture and rape. He has never touched a Mudblood or a Muggle woman. He has seen his fellow Death Eaters sully themselves over and over whether through rape or coercion or even plain old seduction and he has felt nothing but disgust.

Of course, he is not the only exception. Since the death of the Potter girl, Severus has shown no carnal interest in woman, Muggle or otherwise and the Dark Lord himself enjoys torture, but not rape. Lucius has always been grateful that his master does not appear to share the proclivities of the other Death Eaters. He would not have wished to commit such acts even in the name of the cause. It has never been an act of willpower not to follow in the footsteps of his comrades. He has no more urge to subdue a Muggle born witch through the use of sexual domination than he does a disobedient dog or a recalcitrant horse. They are not the same as him. They are intrinsically different. He doesn't fuck his house elves when they displease him; why on earth would he fuck a Muggle?

Until this Mudblood. This woman who is barely more than a girl fixed her bright inquisitive gaze on him and changed everything. And now, wanting her is killing him. It is eating him up inside like some sort of horrible flesh rotting disease slowly eroding everything he stands for. There is something inherently fascinating about her. It's not her body. Although her form is pleasing enough despite the terrible hair. It has something to do with her mind. Her pride, her fierce intelligence, her willingness to face death over an unanswered question. He cannot help but wonder at these traits. He can see why she drove Severus to distraction. She is brave and bold and honest and loyal. Unerringly, unswervingly loyal. Nobody has ever loved him the way she loves her friends.

He has thought about killing her. It would undoubtedly draw the wrath of the Dark Lord, but even then it would be worth it. He would finally be at peace again. The strange urges and fits of conscience which have plagued him since the day he found her would all be laid to rest. He would be truly himself once more. He could do it. He could cast an _Avada Kedavra_ while she sleeps. There would be no need to see the light in those soft brown eyes extinguished by his curse. He could take the coward's way out and rid himself of her for once and for all. The idea is inherently appealing and at the same time completely unconscionable. He might fantasise about being free of her, but the stark truth is, he is not brave enough to permanently eliminate the possibility of having her.

But none of it matters because _she _does not want _him._ He can burn up every night and stand beneath an icy shower every morning because the girl considers him an evil monster and he has no wish to take her by force. They are at an impasse and Lucius can indulge in the delicious torture of his frustration as much as he pleases.

Until that terrible moment when their lips meet. He doesn't know, and it doesn't matter anyway, who kissed whom. What matters is the horrible, visceral truth revealed in their savage embrace. His feelings are not one sided. He desires the Mudblood and she desires him in return.

And then it is inevitable, is it not? Like the changing of the seasons or the rising of the sun. They might hate themselves and each other but the sad truth is that they have both been betrayed by their selfish bodies and eventually they will succumb. It is not a matter of if, but when.

Deep down he knows it will be worth it. Oh, he will hate himself. He will purge himself afterwards even though he knows he will never feel clean again. He will scrub at his body just as he scrubbed at his teeth after their first punishing kiss. He will make his skin bleed just as he did his gums, and it will do not a scrap of good because the dirt is ingrained on his very soul. In many ways he has already committed the crime. In wanting her he has acknowledged her and taking that final step, joining the two of them together is only the culmination of something he has already begun..

He likes to think it would only need to be once. Having her would serve to exorcise his demons and he would be free once more. His soul would be cleansed of her filth. It is the only way and he thinks the girl will understand that. He needs her to understand, because he isn't sure how much longer he can resist her now that the flood gates have been breached.

He will try. For the sake of everything he believes in. For the sake of everything he _i__s_, he will try to resist her siren's call. Perhaps if he ignores them the feelings will go away. He stares at himself in the mirror. He hardly recognises the haunted wizard who stares back at him. The girl is killing him.

Hermione can't quite believe that she allowed such a thing to happen. She can do her best to deny it. She can employ all her powers of sophistry and avoidance and tell herself that the kiss was something forced upon her. That it had been entirely uninvited, unwelcome and unwanted. That she had found the experience utterly unpleasant and distasteful. And all of that is true, and yet, not true at the same time.

He must have kissed her. She cannot comprehend a reality in which she would willingly kiss Lucius Malfoy. And yet, she had touched him. She can still feel the sensation of that silky hair around her fingers. Just the thought of it sparks an odd tingling sensation which flutters from her breasts to her abdomen and settles in her groin. It horrifies her, that her body should respond to him in such a way, but it is undeniable.

Hermione hasn't given much thought to sex before. There had been something between herself and Ron. He had inspired a motherly affection. She had wanted to care for him in the strangest of ways. The need to do his homework for him, or straighten his tie or brush his hair; all of these she had supposed were manifestations of her warmer regard for him. When he had taken up with Lavender it had caused her almost physical pain. It had been exquisite torture watching him with her; wishing that it were she in Lavander's place. But she hadn't really wished it, had she? She hadn't really wanted the sloppy kisses and public displays of affection and groping in dark corners. The thought filled her with mild revulsion. The relationship she had imagined with Ron had always faded to black when things moved beyond the most chaste of kisses.

Her relationship with Viktor had amounted to little more. He had been in possession of impeccable manners. When she had told Harry that he mainly watched her study she had not been lying. He had done a great deal of holding doors open and kissing of her hand, but this had been their sole physical exchange. She wonders what has become of Viktor. Is he still alive? She doesn't even know how far Voldemort's sphere of influence extends. Are the international wizarding community aware of his regime? Do they plan to attempt to overthrow him?

She returns her mind to the current situation. Certainly neither Ron, nor Viktor inspired this wanton feeling of burning passion that Lucius ignites.

Whatever happened between them, she decides she must put it from her mind. Neither she nor Lucius have any desire to pursue a relationship. Their interactions have been defined by mutual hatred. That she finds him physically attractive is neither here nor there and she cannot imagine the attraction is reciprocated. She suspects that on his part the kiss was more about dominance than seduction. She allows herself to relive once more the feeling of his hard lips and his warm body moulded against her own. She briefly reminisces over how small and feminine she had felt against him then she packs the entire memory away and shoves it into a corner of her mind where she puts all her worst experiences.

As she nibbles on a slice of toast her eye is drawn to a rolled up item at the back of the breakfast tray. It's a copy of _The Prophet_. She unrolls it excitedly. She has all of Severus's books to read, of course. But nothing can compete with news of the world. Even if she knows it will be laced liberally with censorship and propaganda. She smoothes out the crumpled cover of the newspaper she stares wide eyed at the headline.

**Rookwood house burned to the ground by fiendfyre**

She barely remembers Augustus Rookwood. Most of the battle in the Department of Mysteries is a blur to her now. The ugly scar which bisects her torso serves as a reminder to think carefully before she acts. But the individual Death Eaters present that fateful day? The only ones whose faces she can call to mind are Lucius and Bellatrix. She feels no sense of mourning over Rookwood's death. Every remaining Death Eater can rot in hell for all she cares.

She scrutinises the article searching for clues. It is disappointingly short on detail. According to one of the house elves who is being held for questioning the family had been in residence and had retired after dinner. The fire had originated outside the house, on one of the terraces, but had quickly spread to engulf the whole building. Rookwood and his wife had both been killed. Their children, aged twelve and thirteen were safely at Hogwarts and were currently being cared for by the headmaster. Hermione feels a pang of sympathy for the bereaved teenagers being thrown to the tender mercies of Severus Snape. Then she remembers how poisonous Draco had been even by the age of 12 and thinks that they are probably best removed from their parents' sphere of influence.

The article is careful not to speculate over who or what might have caused the fire,but there is something there, a subtle subtext of fear. Hermione doesn't recognise the name of the journalist credited with the piece. The bent of their writing suggests that they sympathise with Voldemort's regime. Nonetheless, she reads and rereads the article before she allows the paper to fall into her lap. A tiny flicker of hope is beginning to kindle inside her.

She springs to her feet and rushes to her futon. She has to almost climb under the mattress before her questing fingers find what they seek. She pulls out the squashed copy of _The Prophet_ and quickly opens it to the story on Rodolphus Lestrange. There are no more details than Ginny had already provided her with. Lestrange apparently died quietly at home after a short illness. Hermione places the two papers one on top of the other and fans them out slightly so she can view the dates. They are exactly three weeks apart. Even she can't find any significance in that.

She re-reads the articles. Rookwood was head of the Snatcher programme. She curls her lip at the memory of the dirty rabble who captured her, Harry and Ron all those years ago. That the programme still exists is testimony to the fact that Voldemort has not completely eliminated the resistance. Or perhaps he has. Perhaps the ever expanding Snatcher programme tasked with finding Undesirable Number One is nothing but a huge waste of money because Harry is not out there to be found. She chews her lip. On the other hand, perhaps he is out there. Perhaps he is responsible for these deaths. Two of Voldemort's inner circle dead within a few weeks. It does seem like too much of a coincidence.

She wishes she could see Ginny. Not just because she wants to discuss the possible murders, but because she realises her friend must be perilously close to her time. Ginny had appeared huge to Hermione when she had arrived at the hunting lodge and that had been over two months ago.

When Vera arrivs to collect the tray Hermione innocently asks, "When will Master Draco's baby be born, Vera?"

The little elf clasps her hands in front of her in excitement. "In two weeks, Miss Hermione, if all is well."

"And Ginny, Miss Weasley, is she well?"

Vera hesitates and Hermione feels a trickle of apprehension make its way down her spine. "Is there something wrong with her?"

"No, Miss." Vera wrings her hands. "The Master Draco's Award is just being tired. That is what she is telling Vera anyway."

"But you're worried about her," Hermione presses. How can she have ignored her friend for so long? How could she have been too wrapped up in her own depressive stupor to remember Ginny?

Vera's ears droop. "She is being very sad," she admits. "A witch is needing her mother at a time like this."

"You know that she is my good friend." Hermione leans forward eagerly. "Perhaps I could help her."

Vera begins to shake her head even before Hermione has finished speaking. "The Master is saying that Miss Granger is not to be seeing Miss Weasley."

"Why not?"

"I is not wanting to say." Vera's hand wringing goes up a notch.

"Please, Vera, you can tell me, I won't be offended."

"The Master is saying that he doesn't want no filthy Mudblood near any grandchild of his. Oh I is sorry, Miss Hermione." Vera begins to bang her head against the doorframe and Hermione leaps up to pull her off.

"Vera, stop that. You don't have to punish yourself. I'm not a member of your family, you can't betray me."

"But Miss Hermione is Vera's friend. Vera does not like to betray a friend."

"You're not betraying me by telling me the truth." Hermione pats the elf's arm. "And you're not betraying Mr Malfoy either. I already know he hates me. Listen, do you think if I wrote a letter you could take it to Ginny? I think it might make her feel better?"

Vera thinks for a minute before nodding her head. "The Master is not saying nothing about you writing letters to Miss Weasley."

"Good."

Hermione leaps to her feet and finds a piece of parchment and a quill in her satchel. Her note to Ginny is short. She hopes her friend will understand the subtext. She daren't speak in plain words.

_I'm awake now. Sorry I wasn't before. I think you were right. There's been another one. I hope you're okay. _

_Love Hermione_

She folds the parchment and hands it to Vera who disappears with a crack. She returns moments later with the same piece of parchment in her hand. Hermione droops with disappointment until Vera proudly hands her the paper and she realises that Ginny has scrawled a response below her own message.

_No need to apologise. I'm glad you've finally seen sense. I'm fine. What do we do now?_

_Ginny_

Hermione responds.

_I need to see you. Can you make it happen? _

_Hermione_

_No. Lucius found out about the last visit and was livid. What are you doing to him? I've never known him so grumpy. Listen, if you want to see me you need to find a way to get around him. _

_Ginny_

Hermione doesn't respond. She doesn't know what to say. She has no influence with Lucius. He had hated her before their kiss and he probably hates her even more now. She and Ginny will have to make do with communicating by note for the time being. She folds the parchment carefully and stows it within her satchel.

Even as she moves through to her office and begins to work on the curriculum once more her mind continues to sift through the information she has acquired. She cannot deny the hope that blooms in her heart. She is afraid to allow herself even to imagine that Harry is alive. She doesn't think she can survive losing him again. But there is somebody out there. Somebody on the same side as her. Somebody with the power to eliminate two of Voldemort's staunchest of allies right under his nose. She needs to find this person and offer them her assistance.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N PLEASE READ EVEN IF YOU DON'T NORMALLY! - I'm so sorry, guys. I discovered a continuity error when I started editing the last chapter. So if you read chapter 14 before 28/08/19 please go back and re-read the last two paragraphs. It's a clumsy fix, but I didn't want to make major edits to the whole story when it was still a WIP. **

**As an apology, here's a surprisingly quick update. Thanks to wonderful Vitellia for beta reading for me even though she's too busy to write herself at the moment. You should all go and read her Sevmione, Past Imperfect. It's fantastic. **

"You have done well."

Hermione almost falls off her seat. Never before has she been the recipient of such high praise from Severus Snape. The pinnacle of her achievements was a grudgingly scrawled _Exceeds Expectations_ at the bottom of an essay. For him to tell her she has done well… She feels positively giddy.

"You needn't look so delighted, Miss Granger. Might I remind you we are no longer in Hogwarts. Words of praise from a teacher are unlikely to get you far these days."

Just like that, she is deflated. He's right. The time to impress Severus Snape is long gone. Who cares if he is pleased with her work? Now she has done it perhaps he will take her books away. She looks up at him in fear. She doesn't think she can't go back to the hollow existence Lucius had imposed on her. She thinks she might rather die.

Snape pauses in the act of pushing her completed paperwork into a briefcase.

"I have some additional tasks I could set you, if you so desire." He is watching her carefully. His pale face is as inscrutable as ever.

"Yes please," she replies, not even bothering to conceal her eagerness.

Snape raises an eyebrow. "Don't be too quick to agree, Miss Granger. Perhaps you will not find this task so agreeable."

"Will I be allowed to keep the books?" Hermione gestures to the small library she has amassed.

Snape's mouth twitches in what she thinks might actually have been the beginning of a smile. "You will."

"Then I'll do anything."

He shakes his head in disappointment. "Really you Gryffindors must learn to look before you leap. I wish you to brew potions for me."

"That's fine."

He closes his eyes briefly. "You're not even going to ask me what potions? You're just going to blindly agree to brew them. What if they were harmful to your health?"

"They're not, are they?"

"No, they are not. What if they might be harmful to others?"

"Like poison?"

"Perhaps."

Hermione hesitates. "I've never brewed a poison before. I'd be interested to try. Besides, it's not as if they won't be brewed just because I say no, is it?"

Snape raises an eyebrow. "I had not expected such pragmatism from you, Miss Granger. The point is moot. I do not wish you to brew poisons. I merely wish you to restock the Hogwarts infirmary supplies. Our current potions master is not able to do so."

Hermione pricks her ears up at even this tiny bit of information. Brewing for the infirmary was part and parcel of the potion master's role. Why on earth is the current post holder not able to keep up? She bites her lip in order to prevent herself from asking.

"Where will I do my brewing?" she asks instead. _Hogwarts, let him say Hogwarts, _she mentally pleads. She could get away. Perhaps Snape will take her to Hogwarts where she will be free of Lucius' oppressive presence. Free of this strange unhealthy attraction that she seems unable to control. She wonders if Lucius will relinquish her. She doesn't understand why he persists in keeping her in his room when her presence seems to aggravate him so thoroughly.

"Lucius has a laboratory here." Snape's answer crushes her hope.

"Oh."

"If you wish I can show it to you now."

She gets to her feet and follows him from the room. She looks around with interest as he sweeps along the mezzanine floor and takes a small staircase at the back.

"This is a beautiful house," she remarks. It is much less oppressive than Malfoy Manor. The glass cupola allows the afternoon sunlight to flood the mezzanine and stairwell with light and everything about the place seems to be designed to make it as sunny and welcoming as possible. It seems a direct contradiction to everything she knows of the Malfoy family. Snape only grunts in response. He is in full potion master's billow and Hermione almost has to trot to keep up with him. She glances over her shoulder at the main staircase and the entrance hallway beneath. For a moment she entertains the brief fantasy of making a run for it. In her mind's eye she sees herself giving Snape the slip and bursting through the door into the sunlight beyond. She quashes the idea. There is no way she would make it that far. Snape might disapprove of foolish wand waving, but he's skilled enough at it when he chooses.

They descend the back staircase and emerge onto a less well-lit corridor lined by wooden doors. Hermione guesses they are now in the part of the house dedicated to the servants. Snape chooses a door seemingly at random and touches his wand to the lock. He takes a step back and gestures for Hermione to enter first. She is surprised by his good manners.

She is also surprised by the room. She had expected a perfunctory space. Perhaps a couple of cauldrons set on tables. A makeshift laboratory, like her own makeshift study. Of course, the Malfoy family would not have anything so commonplace. The space they enter is better appointed than the Hogwart's potions classroom. The stainless steel cupboards and benches give the place a curiously contemporary appearance and Hermione is reminded of an ultrafashionable Muggle kitchen. She stifles an inappropriate snort at the thought of Lucius and Narcissa shopping for kitchen units in Ikea. Snape gives her a curious look, but remains silent as she wanders between the benches one hand trailing over the work surface.

"It's incredible." The words burst unbidden from her lips and she bites down hard wishing she could take them back. To her surprise Snape has no scathing words. He nods in response.

"This is what generations of accumulated wealth will buy you, Miss Granger." Hermione frowns a little at that. She had assumed from his association with Slytherin house and the Malfoy family that Snape was equally wealthy. Now, she wonders if she was mistaken. An image of Snape's mother, sour faced and angry looking, skims through her consciousness. She pushes these thoughts aside. It doesn't matter where Snape came from. All that matters are his actions and he has proven himself to be irredeemable.

"Who does it belong to?" She turns in a circle taking in the large wrack laden down with every sort of cauldron imaginable.

"Lucius, of course."

"Yes, but he doesn't brew."

"How do you know?" Snape's gaze snaps to hers and Hermione quickly drops her eyes. She has no wish to have Severus Snape inside her mind. Not that she has anything to hide, not really. Still, her thoughts regarding Lucius are confused and entirely personal.

"I don't know." She shrugs. "He just doesn't look like someone who brews potions in his spare time, that's all." She is absolutely not about to tell Snape that she is so finely attuned to everything about Malfoy that she thinks she can tell what colour of wine he has drunk at dinner. There's no way he could spend hours working with pungent chemicals without her sensitive nose picking it up.

"You are right," Snape accedes. "This lab was built for Narcissa. She had quite a flare for potions, although she wasted her time with far too much cosmetic nonsense."

Hermione tries to imagine perfectly groomed Narcissa Malfoy bending over a cauldron, her coiffured hair heavy with steam. The image doesn't compute. Lucius' wife is an enigma to her, even more so than Lucius himself.

"Professor Snape?"

He looks over at her once more and raises an eyebrow. It's as much of an invitation to proceed as she's likely to receive. She gathers her courage to ask the question which has been burning in her mind ever since she learned of Narcissa's death.

"What happened to Mrs Malfoy?"

If possible Snape's countenance becomes even more shuttered than normal.

"What do you mean, what happened?"

"Well, I know she's dead." She won't think about Lucius' face when he dropped that particular bomb. He is already seemeing far too human these days, oozing around the barriers she has erected with the sole purpose of keeping him out. She has no desire to recollect the look of absolute devastation on his face as he told her of Narcissa's death. "But I don't know how it happened, was she killed during the battle?"

"In a manner of speaking." Snape crosses the room and pulls down a large folder. He places it on one of the benches and removes several bits of parchment.

"Who killed her?" Hermione comes to stand beside him and looks down at the parchments. They contain brewing instructions.

"Why do you want to know, Miss Granger?" Snape's obsidian gaze is on her again and she flinches.

"I...I don't know…I just.."

"Need to know for the sake of knowing?"

She nods mutely.

Snape sighs. "It strikes me, Miss Granger, that your incessant pursuit of knowledge has led to nothing but trouble. And yet, you continue to seek out the truth, no matter the consequences."

"Why won't you tell me?" She almost shouts the words. She needs to know.

"She was killed by the Dark Lord."

Hermione physically staggers backwards as Snape's words hit her straight between the eyes.

"The Dark Lord, but why?"

Snape sighs again.

"Narcissa was a good woman."

Hermione considers arguing with that one. In her eyes, Narcissa was a snooty cow and a pureblood supremacist. She can't quite see how that marries with being a good woman.

"She bought into the Pureblood ideology, but she had lines she would not cross. She was never comfortable with the Dark Lord's pursuit of Potter. She felt children should be allowed a childhood."

"Really?"

Snape glowers at her and she presses her fingers against her lips as if to stifle any further outbursts. She casts her mind back once more to what she knew of Narcissa. She had certainly been a doting mother. Viewed from Draco's perspective the woman must have appeared an angel.

"She didn't seem particularly keen on allowing me a childhood when her evil sister was torturing me on her drawing room floor."

Snape inclines his head. "She was most disturbed by that particular incident. We spoke of it many times. You must understand that Narcissa Malfoy was almost as much a prisoner as you."

"Really?" Again Hermione fails to keep the note of incredulity from her voice. "She was kept locked in Lucius' bedroom, only allowed out when it suited him?"

"Not quite." Snape avoids her gaze once more. She is beginning to think that he is just as uncomfortable with her and Lucius' relationship as she. "But she was born into a society with a very strict set of rules. She was not a particularly strong woman. There was no way for her to deviate from the path that was laid out for her. By the time you encountered her in Malfoy Manor she was under the thumb of the Dark Lord. Her only son was held hostage by his own aunt. What was she supposed to do? Risk Draco's life to save yours?"

Hermione fixes her gaze on the flagstones. She feels like Neville being told off by Professor Snape for exploding his cauldron yet again. "I hadn't thought of it that way," she admits.

"Of course you hadn't." Snape gives an inelegant snort. "You and your little friends have a remarkable way of only seeing things from your own point of view."

Hermione wants to argue with him, but she also desperately wants him to finish his story, and anyway, a horrible little voice in the back of her mind suggests that he might be right. She keeps quiet hoping Snape will continue.

Eventually he does.

"I did not witness any of the events that occurred after you left me for dead in the Shrieking Shack." He speaks without bitterness, even so Hermione feels a pang of guilt. It doesn't matter that he was evil, a murderer even. The fact that they had left him to die alone on the filthy floor of that haunted building has been one of the many sources of her nightmares.

"I'm sorry—"

He makes a slicing motion with his hand. "Your apology is neither sought nor welcomed. It was a war, we were on opposing sides. I should be grateful you didn't cast the Killing curse to make sure of my demise."

"I wouldn't—"

Again she is silenced by his gaze. "I was fortunate that Lucius found me in time and more so that the Dark Lord was glad to see Nagini had been unsuccessful." He pauses and gives Hermione a penetrating stare. Again she blinks and looks away. "I believe I gave Potter something before I lost consciousness."

Hermione nods. "You did. They looked like memories."

"But Potter never saw them?"

"No. We were heading for the castle when Harry was knocked down by a piece of masonry. The vial was smashed." Hermione hasn't thought about that particular part of the battle for years. Her brain ticks over furiously. "What was in them, Professor?"

"I hardly remember." Snape turns away dismissively and lifts a pewter cauldron onto the bench. "I probably wanted to torture him with more images of his pathetic father as the school bully."

That does seem like something the bitter potions master would do, she thinks. Inflict as much pain on his arch enemy as possible before he died, but there's something about the way he hunches over as he speaks that makes her think there is more to it than that. She doesn't push him.

"What happened to Mrs Malfoy?"

Snape sighs. "You are incorrigible, Miss Granger. As far as the story goes the Dark Lord killed Potter with the Killing Curse."

Hermione nods. She is familiar with this part of the narrative.

"He sent Narcissa to ascertain whether or not he was really dead." Hermione's heart begins to hammer. She had not known this.

"Narcissa found him alive and, instead of informing the Dark Lord of this she not only lied, but she slipped Potter the Draught of Living Death."

"But why?" Hermione can't help but interject.

Snape gives an elegant shrug. "Who knows? One might hypothesise that she wished to end the battle and prevent further bloodshed. She was half crazed with worry about her son at this point. She would have done anything to end the fighting. The Dark Lord believes that she was too soft hearted to do what needed to be done and was trying to save Potter's life simply for his own sake. It was for this treason that she was executed."

"But how did he find out, the Dark Lord, I mean?" Hermione's fingers are clenched painfully against the work bench. She is so close to finding out the truth. Is Snape really going to reveal that Harry is truly alive?

"Potter's body disappeared during the final battle. The Dark Lord questioned Narcissa himself. I believe he has examined your thoughts, it is difficult to keep things from him, is it not?"

Hermione swallows and nods. She has no desire to relive that painful experience.

"What about Mr Malfoy?" She forces herself to try and sound only mildly interested.

"What about him?" Snape strides across the room to a large store cupboard and begins to remove ingredients. Hermione trots obediently behind him.

"Wasn't he angry about the death of his wife?"

"Enough!" Snape whirls around so abruptly that Hermione gives a startled shriek and leaps away from him. "Enough of your incessant questions, girl. This is not Hogwarts. I am no longer your teacher. I have indulged you far too much for one day."

Hermione shrinks away from him and watches in silence as he lays out ingredients. "We are going to brew _Skele-gro_," his voice is calm and matter of fact, as if he hadn't just shouted at her moments earlier. "It is a simple enough process. I shall demonstrate. Then you will attempt to brew it under my supervision. If you are successful then you shall take over its production."

Hermione nods her assent even though he doesn't seem particularly interested in her response. Despite the circumstances she feels a secret thrill at the thought of brewing again and, better still, learning a new potion.

She watches with rapt attention as Snape assembles the ingredients. His long fingered hands move deftly as he begins to chop the legs from the scarab beetles. It is both familiar and unfamiliar. She can almost allow herself to believe that they are back at Hogwarts once more and he is demonstrating a new technique to the class. It is difficult to keep him where he belongs in her mind. For so long he was her teacher, someone she respected and trusted, now he is the enemy.

He appears completely focussed on the task at hand. His wand lies on the bench between them and Hermione wonders if it is enchanted in the same as Lucius'. She can't harm Lucius. She has given up even thinking about it. But Snape is not similarly protected. As the only other member of the inner circle she has access to perhaps she ought to try and dispose of him. Now she knows for sure that Harry is alive it seems more than likely that he is behind the recent killings. Here she is resting on her laurels when she should be helping.

"You're shouting." Snape's voice is dry and dispassionate and he continues to deftly shred the scarab beetles.

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't have to. I can hear you thinking." He is matter of fact as if they are discussing the weather.

"That's not possible." She clenches her fingers into fists to stop them from shaking.

"No?" Snape gives her an amused look. "Then how do I know that you are contemplating murdering me with my own wand? It has no enchantment, you know. It might even consider working for you. I believe you are also partial to a Dragon Heartstring Core?" They both look down at his wand. "However," Snape picks up his wand and stows it in his sleeve, "given the failure of your last murder attempt you are understandably nervous. You worry that Potter is out there waiting for you and you are failing him in some way since you haven't managed to kill a single wicked Death Eater despite being resident amongst them. That sums it up, I believe."

Hermione swallows. "You weren't even looking at me," she says.

"I don't have to." Snape adds the scarab legs to the cauldron and carefully counts out five eyes. "You project, Miss Granger. You always have. Every thought, every emotion, anyone who is listening can pick them out of thin air."

This is news to Hermione who can only stare at him in disbelief.

"Oh do shut up." Snape glares at her. "Your self-pity is worse than your painfully amateurish plotting.

"I don't know how!" she shouts.

"Then I suggest you learn," Snape responds with admirable calm. "I cannot stand to hear your adolescent angst every time something does not go your way. "Here." He extends his arm and stands with it outstretched for several seconds. Eventually a book zooms through the doorway of the lab and into his hand. He proffers it to Hermione.

"Read this, every last page and practice until I am no longer forced to endure your pathetic whining."

Hermione takes the book. It is large and has _Advanced Occlumency_ enscribed in gold on the front cover.

"Won't the Dark Lord object?" she asks hesitantly.

Snape gives another of his snorts. "As if you could ever keep _him_ out. You might succeed in shielding your thoughts from me, but there is not a hope in hell of you ever Occluding the Dark Lord. He knows that as well as I. Now, are we ever going to brew this potion?"


	17. Chapter 17

**Finally, an update. Sorry for the delay. I've been struggling to find time to write, but we're almost at a section of the story which is already written so hopefully updates will be more frequent. **

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed and to wonderful Vitellia for beta reading for me. **

Harry is alive!

Days later and the enormity of this truth hasn't yet sunk in. She has replayed her conversation with Professor Snape time and time again and she can come to no other conclusion. Harry was not killed by Voldemort. Narcissa Malfoy slipped him a potion which gave him the appearance of death. The subsequent disappearance of his body suggested that someone had taken the opportunity to remove him from the battle. She knows him too well to even think that he would have left the battlefield had he regained consciousness.

Hermione's emotions have veered wildly from one extreme to the other. Of course, her main feeling is one of overarching joy. Harry has survived against the odds. As long as he lives there is hope. For the first time in years, she allows herself to think of the future again. Perhaps there will be a life for her beyond the confines of her gilded prison and her mercurial captor.

In her less optimistic moments though Hermione is hard pushed not to feel resentment. Harry is alive and he has made no effort to seek out her or Ginny. There has been no contact from a secret underground network. No rash and poorly thought out rescue attempts. She knows that Harry was only ever one-third of a whole and that, without her and Ron, he must be feeling lost and vulnerable. But she still can't understand why her friend hasn't made some attempt at least to communicate with her. She wonders if Harry knows about Ginny and her current state. She realises now that she and her friend are little more than bait in a trap. A trap that so far Harry has been too smart to spring. She oscillates between pride that he has had the good sense to stay away and disappointment that he has allowed his head to rule his heart.

She desperately wants to talk to Ginny. She has twice sat down to write to her friend with the news of Harry's survival. Twice she has torn the paper into tiny shreds. She knows Ginny will be pleased. But at the same time, she fears for her friend's mental health at such a precarious time. She has no idea how the news of Harry's survival will affect her and she doesn't want to risk dropping such a bombshell when she is not there in person to deal with the fallout.

Instead, she broods and cogitates and reads Professor Snape's book. She takes it with her everywhere and devours it from cover to cover. She reads over breakfast, lunch and dinner. She reads between steps as she brews. She reads until it grows dark in the evenings and again once Lucius lights his reading orb. At first, she hides the cover from him. But it has become apparent that Lucius is trying very hard not to look in her direction and so, she is free to read what she likes without fear of condemnation.

Lucius' response to their kiss is yet another scenario that leaves her in two minds. Ridiculous as it is because she knows he is a bigot and a bully, she is oddly hurt by his refusal to even acknowledge her. Hermione has kissed only three men in her life and to be so completely rejected by one of them hurts her fragile ego. Try as she might, she is not able to put the incident from her mind. She thinks of it a dozen times a day. Her gaze is unwillingly drawn to his lips whenever he is in her view. The sight of him sends an arrow of desire straight to her belly leaving her feeling winded and hot. Yet he seems completely unaffected by her. He ignores her so thoroughly that Hermione wonders if she has somehow become invisible. She resolves to ignore him back and reminds herself that she is eternally grateful that he has not mistaken their ill-fated kiss as an invitation to pursue her carnally. Because if he did, she is not sure that she would have the wherewithal to resist.

She does what she always has when situations move out with her control and she reads. The book fascinates her. It turns out that her 'shouting', as Professor Snape so crassly put it, is in fact in itself a form of Legilimency. Furthermore, it is not just any person who can hear her thoughts. Only a skilled Legilimens will hear the thoughts of a projector. Hermione is greatly relieved by this and a little flattered. Flattered, because for once she is special. She lived too long in the shadow of Harry the chosen one, Harry the parselmouth, Harry with the direct link to the mind of Voldemort, not to sometimes wish that there were something just a little bit special about her. She is oddly proud to learn that she possesses a rare form of magic most Wizards haven't even heard of. She is equally relieved to discover that not everyone can hear her thoughts. Professor Snape greatly exaggerated the degree of her ability to project. She wonders if he knows that only a skilled Legilimens can do as he does. She reflects that perhaps it is his inability to understand that things that come easily to him are not necessarily natural to others is one of the reasons he was such an appalling teacher.

Certainly, the techniques for Occlumency in the book bear little relation to Harry's description of the harrowing lessons he was forced to endure with Professor Snape in their fourth year. Hermione wonders why he didn't just give Harry the book and let him get on with it. Unless he wanted her friend to fail. Of course, that's what he wanted. She mentally reprimands herself and wonders why it is that she finds it so difficult to remember that Professor Snape is every bit as much her enemy as Lucius.

Basic Occlumency will shut him out, the book tells her. She learns the principles and begins to practice. It is a much more subtly nuanced art than she might have imagined. There are so many techniques and strategies. As far as she can ascertain basic visualization such as placing a mental construction of a locked door or a closed portcullis between her thoughts and the outside world will be sufficient to prevent her 'shouting'. Indeed, such a technique will also be enough to shield her thoughts from everyday Legilimency. The drawback of such a technique is that anyone with a modicum of skill will be aware of what she is doing. Shielding indicates that a person is Occluding and might even draw the attention of the Legilimens by suggesting that the Occlumens has something to hide.

There are far more subtle techniques, the book tells her. A skilled Occlumens may use sleight of hand to slide their interrogator off a particular memory without them realising that they are being diverted. The most skilled of all can project false memories, whilst at the same time Occluding those that they do not wish to have discovered.

Hermione reads by day and at night she practices until her head aches. She has little idea of her success. The only people she sees are Lucius and the house-elves. She has no idea if Lucius is skilled in Legilimency, but she is certain that he would not help her even if she asked, and that she has no desire to have him in her mind were he willing to assist. She briefly considers asking Vera for help, but she surmises that even if she could Occlude a house elf that would not mean that she was capable of Occluding a human.

She reads and waits; for Snape to return, for news of Ginny's baby, for Harry to finally make a move. She wonders if she will ever again be master of her destiny or if she will be forced to spend the rest of her life waiting.

With hindsight, she wonders if her obsessive practicing has caused some short of short circuit in her brain. Perhaps it is just coincidence, but after a particularly exhausting session in which she surrounds her brain with a deep moat complete with pondweed and pike and holds it in place for several hours her sleep is unpleasantly disturbed.

The nightmare takes her by surprise and drags her under before she can even think to resist. She should be able to push back. The dream is a familiar friend. It was her sole companion during her terrifying isolating months on the run. Nightly terror was the only constant in her otherwise unpredictable life. Gradually, she had learned to throw it off. She would mentally duck her head and escape Bellatrix's grasping arms and the searing cut of her magical whip. She would wake herself up time after time to lie sweating and afraid in whatever miserable makeshift campsite she had managed to build. Sometimes, she was forced to stay awake all night to avoid its clutches.

Not now. She has grown sloppy. The dream has not troubled her since Lucius took her prisoner. She hasn't thought to question it. Here, she is in more danger than ever before. Held prisoner in the home of a Death Eater and her torturer's brother in law no less. She is closer to Bellatrix than she has been for years. But somehow her psyche has been fooled by her opulent surroundings and the illusion of home comforts. She had believed the nightmare permanently vanquished. Now, her foe has taken her unawares. She cannot escape its grip.

Bellatrix's pungent breath chokes her. The whip cuts into her skin over and over. Her scars burn and she tries to run, but her captor is always one step ahead of her taunting and goading her. The whip coils around her ankles and she falls to the ground. She screams as Bellatrix stands over her. Her throat rips in protest and her ears reverberate and still she screams. Over and over as if the sound alone might drive her tormentor away.

"Miss Granger."

She thrashes her head wildly.

"Miss Granger."

This is new. The voice It's not part of the dream. What does it mean?

"Hermione, wake up."

Someone is touching her. This is wrong, unfamiliar…

Hands on her shoulders. They are holding her down. She lashes out.

No! Not holding her down. Gently shaking her.

This isn't part of the dream...

Reality intrudes on the nightmare and she remembers how to wrench herself free. Her eyes open and instead of Bellatrix's damaged beauty, there is only an angel. Golden hair and flawless skin. She blinks. Not an angel.

Lucius.

Tears blur her eyes. Her whole body is on fire with adrenaline. She feels as if she might explode. The only thing holding her together is the press of Lucius's hands against her shoulders. He is evil, she reminds herself. Not her friend. He was there. He stood by and did nothing as Bellatrix tortured her. He was a supporting actor in the original film of the nightmare she now knows she will never escape.

But he is here now. This time he has rescued her. He is warm and solid and he smells like home. She sits up and wraps her arms around him. His large body is comforting against hers. The silk of his pyjamas cools her heated cheek. She strokes her hands across his back. The muscles tense and releases under her touch. Then his arms reach up to encircle her. His hand tangles in the hair at the nape of her neck. Not to control her this time. Not to drag her after him like a recalcitrant dog but to stroke and comfort. She clings to him because he is the final constant in her terrifying life and it is so easy to forget who he is and what he stands for. The steady beating of his heart provides a metronome for her pounding pulse.

She looks up at his beautiful face. A lock of hair hangs over his shoulder and his grey eyes are troubled. She has never seen him look so vulnerable. She reaches up to cup his cheek. There is the faintest rasp of stubble beneath her fingers. But he is soft and warm. Not infallible. Flesh and blood, just like her.

There is no question this time over who instigates the kiss. Hermione uses her fingers on his cheek to prevent him from moving as she presses her lips to his. For a moment he doesn't respond and it is like kissing a beautiful statue. Then his tongue flicks out to taste the tears which have settled on her lips and he is kissing her back his hands once more in her hair as he takes control. She willing accedes. She barely knows where she is or what she is doing. Her body craves his. She wants to climb inside his skin and never leave. She wants to fuse herself to him completely rendering their bodies impossible to separate. She wants him to possess her so fully that she will never have to think or act independently again.

She opens her mouth against his and gives a moan of encouragement as he explores her lips with his tongue and teeth. He is not gentle. But there is none of the brutality of their first kiss either. There is no battle for supremacy here. She gives herself willingly.

Her hands creep beneath his pyjamas and skim over his back. His skin is even more satin-smooth than the expensive garment. Lucius grunts encouragement as her tentative fingers explore his back and chest. He inhales sharply as they skim a nipple which pebbles beneath her fingers.

He lowers her back against the futon and Hermione eagerly receives his weight. His penis, hot and swollen, presses against the vee of her thighs and she squirms and wriggles against it. Her mind is pleasantly numb. All the fear and pain she experienced so recently is washed away on a tide of pleasure. She doesn't even try to question what is happening to her. It is easier, better just to go with the mindless pursuit of please.

She wants to remove the barriers of fabric between them. She wants to feel his skin against hers. Her clumsy fingers find the waistband of his pyjamas and begin to push at the fabric as he mouths at her neck his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin behind her ear. She arches against him. She can't get his trousers off and the suspense is killing her. She doesn't want to wait. She needs him to do this. To take control. To satisfy the craving which is driving her insane.

"Please." She has never heard herself sound so desperate.

Her word has the opposite effect to the anticipated one. He freezes above her. His whole body suddenly tenses once more and then he springs to his feet and backs away. His face is hard to make out in the dimly lit room, but she sees enough of his expression to recognise the look of horror and disgust. He turns on his heel and stumbles away into the bathroom. The door slams behind him and, moments later, she hears the sound of the shower running as he scrubs her dirty touch from his body.

Hermione lies motionless. Her body still throbs with unfulfilled desire. But already hot shame is beginning to wash away the feelings of pleasure. How could she have been so stupid? To throw herself like that at a man such as Lucius. An evil, hateful man. Her enemy. What was she thinking? What would her friends say if they knew that she had begged him to take her? She feels her face heat as embarrassment overwhelms her.

As her arousal dwindles her common sense returns. It's as if she is an egg timer. All the neurological impulses which had flooded her breasts and groin appeared to have drained her brain of its capacity to think. Now, as her body calms, her mind is switched back on again. It would be easy to cast Lucius in the role of villain. Indeed, she must not forget that he is a Death Eater and her enemy. But he had seemed as powerless as she this evening. He had been just as caught up in what was happening between them. His need for her had been tangible. And then he had stopped himself. Presumably, because he had no desire to sully himself by copulating with a filthy mudblood. She winces at her own thought. Then she smiles into the darkness. Lucius Malfoy is afraid of her. She might prefer that he were intimidated by her intellect or her magical prowess, but still. She has twice forced him to retreat to his bathroom with his tail between his legs.

She will not cry. She will not feel shame. She will not berate herself for what she has done and who she has done it with. She will not run and hide like Lucius. She will accept both her strengths and her weaknesses and then she will put this unfortunate attraction aside once more. She must if she is ever going to be able to fight back.

Lucius stands beneath the shower and, for what feels like the millionth time, allows the cold water to wash away his shame.

He is clinging to his self-control by the thinnest of threads. The compulsion to reenter his bedroom and give the girl what she was clearly asking for is almost overwhelmingly strong. And yet, he remains; blasting himself beneath the icy stream. Because much as he wants her, and he does want her, desperately, much as he has admitted to himself that it is a matter of if and not when. He does not want her this way. Not when she is cowed and fearful and clinging to him as if he offers some sort of salvation. He wants her fiery and angry and as disgusted by their repellent attraction as he is.

He wishes the sound of the water would erase the memory of her screams. He knows exactly what she was dreaming of. He witnessed the drawing up of the template after all. Her screams then had bothered him less than they should have. He hadn't been himself and if any concerns had penetrated the shroud of habitual drunkenness he had drawn around himself it would not have been the screams of an unknown mudblood girl. He had been much too busy worrying about his wife and son and the insane woman who had taken up residence in their house.

Hermione's cries had deeply affected his wife though. Narcissa had dreamed of the girls' torture over and over and Lucius had been woken many times by her blood-curdling screams. Even he can see the irony.

Tonight, he found himself unable to ignore Hermione. Where previously, her torture made little impact. Now, her screams elevate his heart rate and cause him to break into a cold sweat. He pulled the pillow over his head and feigned sleep certain that she would quiet of her own accord. But the nightmare only seemed to increase in its intensity to the extent that he could no longer ignore it. He found himself kneeling over her and shaking her awake before the notion to comfort her had even taken root in his mind.

He refuses to think about what happened afterwards. As soon as he touched her he had lost control. Her warm soft body pressing so trustingly against his had been the greatest of aphrodisiacs and had she not kissed him he knows he would have been the instigator.

She had wanted him, but not consciously so. Lucius knows when he is being seduced and there had been no hint of seduction in what had transpired earlier. There had been no artifice, no planning. She had not even taken advantage of a situation which had unexpectedly turned in her favour. Her brain had been fuddled by sleep and fear and a wrongly derived sense of gratitude toward him because he had 'saved' her from her nightmare. Lucius knows he has done many things that would be considered immoral by many people. But he has never taken a woman by force or coercion and he has no desire to start with Miss Granger. He wants her fully cognizant and willing or he will not have her at all.

He shuts off the shower and leans against the freezing tiles. Shivers wrack his body and he is grateful to finally be distracted. He has run out of time. The compulsion which has ruled him for the last few weeks can no longer be ignored. Once the girl has recovered her sensibilities they will come to a reasonable arrangement.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N Usual apologies for the slow update. I'm not sure about this chapter, despite the reassurance of lovely Vitellia. If you can work out where I took my inspiration from, I hope you like it! If you hate it, please be gentle. Real life is crapping all over me at the moment. **

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Hermione and Lucius circle each other carefully, like two planets whose orbits are perfectly misaligned. They occupy the same space, but each seems set upon avoiding the other. There is no interaction. No words are spoken. No sidelong glances or lingering looks. They both strive to pretend that the other does not exist.

Hermione is jittery. Her nerves jangle as if she has drunk one cup of coffee too many. She expects Lucius to pounce at any moment. At the same time she is forced to admit that she is equally as culpable, if not more so than he, for what has taken place between them. She still cannot quite believe what she as done or allowed him to do to her. She still can't find a label to apply to their kisses. They were not non-consensual. There was no element of coercion or force. She was even more of an instigator than he. She is also aware that she cannot afford any sort of softening in her attitude. Kissing him once could be put down to an accident, twice was careless. Three would be foolhardy in the extreme.

She is immersed in her work when she hears the click of the door. She looks up, surprised. It's not time for lunch yet and besides, the elves simply apparate between rooms rather than bother with anything as mundane as a door. When she sees that Lucius has entered the potions lab she quickly looks down at her cauldron and pretends that she hasn't seen him.

She hears his measured footsteps as he crosses the small room. She could swear that the space has shrunk since he entered it. He is not even close to touching her and still, she can feel the warmth of his body. His scent envelopes her and she is abruptly reminded of the day she encountered him in the woods. It seems like a lifetime ago. He is so much more familiar to her now. Months of time in his company have accustomed her to the jut of his chin, the way he carries himself, the clipped aristocratic tone of his speech. She wonders if he feels the same way about her. As if he knows everything there is to know about Hermione Granger. She wonders what he wants.

"Good morning, Miss Granger."

"Mr Malfoy." She drops her chin just a fraction of an inch in acknowledgment of his greeting.

He doesn't say anything else, but comes to stand beside her. His eyes are fixed on the potions textbook she has been following. She has highlighted a number of alterations which might be made to strengthening solution. He taps the page with a long finger before he turns away to stare sightlessly at the wall.

Hermione doesn't know what to think. His presence in the lab is unprecedented and unsettling. She forces herself to look at the potion and to focus on stirring it twenty five times in a clockwise direction.

Lucius begins to pace the room with uncharacteristic agitation.

"Miss Granger, I have struggled in vain against this, but it simply will not do." He comes to a halt beside her. Hermione tilts her head back in order to look up at him.

"Much as it pains me to admit it, I find no other recourse than to confess that I desire you physically."

Hermione feels her cheeks warm. "Oh," she says.

"Furthermore, I am driven by recent events to believe that my feelings do not go unreciprocated." He pauses. Hermione isn't sure if it is for breath or in order to allow her to respond. She elects to remain silent.

"I have tried at length to exorcise you from my mind." Lucius resumes his pacing. "I am a man of considerable mental fortitude. You cannot imagine the pain this-" he gestures helplessly apparently lost for words "-preoccupation has caused me. My attraction to you is not just an insult to myself, but to the line of Malfoy and I have suffered bitterly for it. However, I have come to the conclusion that there can be no rest for either of us until we satisfy our urges and consummate our relationship."

Hermione stares at him. Her brain feels as if it has been short-circuited. She is dumbstruck, physically and mentally too. The usual incessant chatter of her thoughts is painfully quiet as she attempts to absorb what he has just said. Then, as if the floodgates have opened she begins to think. Anger, disgust, pride and arousal swirl together in an unpleasant emotional maelstrom that leaves her feeling faintly nauseated.

He is propositioning her. Is _he _really propositioning _her_?" Surely she must be mistaken. She replays his words in her mind her eidetic brain helpfully remembering every nuance of his clumsy proposal. No. There is no way to sugar coat it. He has just propositioned her in the most insulting way possible.

He is looking expectantly at her and it occurs to Hermione that it has not even crossed his mind that she might refuse. Before her is a man who always gets what he wants. Of course, he has spoken of pain and suffering. But the anguish he describes is not the pain of unrequited love. It is quite the opposite. Lucis Malfoy is upset because he desires her against his own will. And he has had the audacity to proposition her without even bothering to pretend that he does not find the idea of their being intimate as repulsive as he does compelling.

Righteous indignation rapidly eclipses all of her other responses. Her own simmering attraction, the subtle pull of her body toward his is temporarily switched off as she fights back the urge to punch his smug face. She supposes she ought to be flattered. There cannot be many, if any, Muggle born woman to have brought Lucius so low. But the way he has described his attraction to her is so offensive that she feels no compulsion to attend to his sensibilities at all.

"Mr Malfoy. " She draws herself up fully, unwilling even to give him the advantage of height over her. " Please do not think for one second that my position in this household leaves me feeling in any way obligated to you. I find I can rest quite well without any sort of physical relationship between us, thank you very much." She takes a deep breath and braces herself against the edge of the potions bench. "You have brought me here against my will. You have abused me, ignored me, insulted me. And then, you have the audacity to suggest that I have sex with you. You speak of suffering and I wonder why you would even think I might care about your discomfort. She finally has the confidence to face him and she meets his cold grey eyed gaze with her own angry stare. "You have no idea of suffering. You are a rude, spoiled unkind man and I would sooner die than sleep with you." She picks up her stirring rod once more and concentrates hard on the potion in front of her even if her eyes won't focus and her entire circulating blood volume is hammering in her ears.

The silence is so overwhelmingly ominous that she is eventually forced to steal a glance in his direction . Lucius' face is completely impassive. His features might as well be carved from stone. Even so, Hermione is terrified. Could she have pushed him too far? His fingers clench and unclench over and over. He is struggling for self control. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Hermione grits her teeth. Whatever he is going to do she will not back down. She has spoken nothing but the truth and he deserved to hear it.

"I appreciate your honesty, Miss Granger." His lips barely move as he speaks. "Although you did not appear so reticent the other night."

Hermione bites her tongue. She will not dignify that comment with an answer.

Suddenly, the tense silence between them is filled by a loud burping sound which comes from her potion. Relieved at the distraction, Hermione leans over and begins to stir. Over the sound of her beating heart and the bubbling potion she hears Lucius' footsteps retreating across the room and the click of the door as it closes behind him. She lets out a long breath. Her trembling fingers release their grip on the stirring rod and she clutches her hands together as she tries to still their shaking. She cannot believe what just happened. A tiny part of her wants to stand on top of the bench and applaud. She just told Lucious Malfoy where to go!

She briefly imagines sitting cross legged on her bed in Gryffindor tower with Lavender, Parvati and Ginny gathered round her as she recounts their conversation. She can almost hear their responses in her head.

"He said what?" Ginny would have been all righteous indignation. "I'd have punched his lights out."

"Are you sure you should have turned him down?" Lavender's voice. "I know he's a bastard, but he's so good looking and you know you like him."

"I do not like him," Hermione speaks out loud and shakes her head as she does so. She tries to dislodge the images her subconscious is conjuring. Of course she doesn't feel anything as puerile as liking toward Lucius. There is something there; something dark and dangerous. It is a smouldering, simmering attraction that could consume them both. She is only surprised that Lucius has succumbed so easily to it. He should be grateful, she thinks as she takes up her stirring rod once more. Consummation, as he so elegantly put it, would lead to nothing but self recrimination and even greater mutual loathing. It is one of the worst ideas she has ever heard and she refuses to think about it any more.

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She has thought of almost nothing else since Lucius came to her and made his ridiculous suggestion. Of course, she is offended. She is deeply insulted by the mediocrity of his proposition. For a man who professes to be obsessed with her he made little effort to sweet talk her into anything. Hermione remembers hearing the Slytherin girls giggling together during study periods. Lucius Malfoy was the one they all fancied. He was so suave, so sophisticated, so much more desirable than all the gauche boys their pureblood parents wanted them to marry. If only he weren't so devoted to his wife….

She hadn't listened to such chatter. She hadn't ever allowed her mind to drift to the tall, imposing figure of Draco's father. Hadn't allowed herself to feel even the slightest bit wistful that, due to circumstances completely outwith her control, Lucius would never look at her with anything other than contempt. She had been completely above such petty intrigues. Even so, it was disappointing to find that Lucius Malfoy had completely failed to live up to his own hype. She was certain that even Crabbe or Goyle would have been able to put together a more attractive proposal than Lucius.

And yet, she cannot stop thinking about it. About his hard body. About the way it had felt pressed against her when he had ridden behind her all those weeks ago. About the way his pajamas clung to his backside. About the jut of his erection each morning. How would it feel to have that inside her?

Bloody awful. She tells herself. No matter how much pleasure Lucius might manage to provide physically she would still have to deal with the mental fallout of having slept with the second most evil man in Britain. If she's so desperate to lose her virginity she might as well go ahead and offer it up to the Dark Lord. She cringes at the thought.

Still, she is preoccupied by thoughts of her own innocence. The opportunity to discover sex at her own pace is yet another privilige she has been denied. The world's longest camping trip simply never yielded the opportunity for herself and Ron to take things to the next level. It wasn't that she hadn't wanted to; at times anyway. Often, she had been so pissed off with him that she wouldn't have dreamed of talking to him, let alone shagging him. But it had always been Ron, for as long as she could remember (she did not allow herself to remember Professor Lockheart). She had always assumed that she would lose her virginity with him at some point in the future. When there was more time and more pleasant surroundings and Harry wasn't likely to walk in at any moment.

Then Ron had died and Harry too (as far as she had known) and she'd been forced into hiding. During this time, sex could not have been further from her mind. She had been so cold and hungry and scared that even her periods had stopped. She had long ago stopped thinking of herself as a sexual being.

And now… now things are different. She has feelings. Horrible, intrusive, cloying feelings that she can't deny. It doesn't matter what she thinks of Lucius. It doesn't matter that she knows he is bad. It doesn't matter that he is her enemy. Her mind and body come alive when he enters the room. It is as if he is capable of flicking a switch which turns her into another person altogether. One who has far less control over her libido than she would like.

Because she is Hermione granger she has already calculated her possible future in great detail. It does not look bright. She might die. A cliched virgin death. She might be tortured to death for information she doesn't have. Or, conversely, she might be killed because the Dark Lord and Lucius realise that she is of no value after all. She could die in a potions accident or a house fire. She might fall back into her depressive fuge and kill herself. Very few of her projections end up with her surviving. Hermione is beginning to come to terms with her on incipient mortality. The question she must now ask herself is, does she wish to die a virgin? And she knows the answer. She wants to experience life to the fullest. She wants to live everything in glorious technicolour. But she doesn't just want to have sex. She wants to fall in love. She wants to get married. She wants to have children and grandchildren. Lucius is offering none of these things. He is offering a cold blooded transaction. The scratching of a mutual itch. It is not what Hermione has dreamed of.

She doesn't want to die a virgin. And now, a whole new list of scenarios have sprung to mind. What if she is raped? An experience horrific in itself would surely be even more so if it were her first and possibly only sexual encounter. By sleeping with Lucius she would be able to take control. He is at least asking her consent. The next man who shows an interest in her might not offer her the same courtesy.

Too horrified by a world in which she even has to consider such things, she puts the matter from her mind. Perhaps Lucius was affected by temporary insanity. Surely he will not approach her again.

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A/N - he probably will though...right...i just want you all to know that the slow burn is perilously close to igniting...


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews of my last chapter.**

**As you can see this installment is quite long. I just couldn't see where to split it so I've left it all as one chapter. I apologise as I know there are mistakes here. I had a bit of a disaster and all of Vitellia's corrections were lost - so my disastrous punctuation will be even worse than usual. Please excuse any other errors too. **

**Content warning - I considered whether this should be labelled as non-con or dub con and I don't think it deserves such a label. However, for anyone who is easily triggered, it isn't necessarily the nicest of chapters - please feel free to contact me for an edited version or a summary of what happens before you read on. **

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Hermione taps her foot against the flagstone floor. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest. If she had a wristwatch, she would be pointedly examining it.

Snape pauses in the act of uncorking and sniffing a vial of Pepper Up Potion.

"Do you have something to say, Miss Granger?"

"Oh no." Hermione ceases her tapping and begins to pace instead. Snape returns to his methodical scrutiny of the one hundred and eighty neatly stoppered bottles she has produced. He appears entirely unhurried. As if it is not already late afternoon and Hermione has not been waiting all day for him to come and oversee the next step in the brewing process of Felix Felicis.

She comes to a halt beside him.

"These are for the Hogwarts infirmary, right?"

"Yes." Snape delicately wipes his nose. The bottle he is sniffing steams slightly and his eyes are red from repeated exposure to the potent potion. He seems undeterred by the fumes emanating from the vial and inhales again before he replaces the cork and puts it neatly back in the crate.

"Do you really think I would tamper with a potion intended to treat innocent school children?" she asks.

Snape gives her a long look. "I have always considered you a most unpredictable Individual."

Hermione is oddly flattered by his response, but is unwilling to be deterred from her argument. At the rate he's going she will do no more than watch him give himself a Pepper Up induced nosebleed before the evening is out.

"However unpredictable you might consider me, I'm no fool. Why would I do something so random as to poison a single vial in a batch of cold remedy when I've got no idea who the end recipient would be? Credit me with a little intelligence, Professor."

Snape doesn't look at her again. "Constant vigilance," he mutters as he continues in his laborious task. Hermione almost thinks she detects a smirk around the corner of his mouth. Did Snape just make a joke? She shakes her head as if to dispel the alien idea.

Seeing that arguing with the Potion's Master is futile, she retreats to a stool and takes a seat. She swings her legs idly as she watches his long-fingered hands crawling like pale spiders across the bottle tops. She has been Occluding fiercely since he entered the laboratory. In fact, she Occludes all the time now. Ever since she learned of her propensity to shout. She has no desire to project her thoughts for anyone sensitive to hear. The action has become second nature to her.

She is piqued that after he complained so vociferously about her projecting the last time she saw him Snape has made no comment on her newly acquired skill. Purposefully, she lowers her shields for a moment and allows her disappointment to blast across the room. Snape winces visibly and almost drops the vial he is holding. He glares at Hermione who slams her shields in place once more. There is a lot of stuff in her head which she has no desire to share with Severus Snape.

"You are a constant source of disappointment," Snape sneers. "No sooner do I credit you with a modicum of maturity and self-control than you erase any admiration I might have had for you with a childish display such as that." He resumes his inspection. Hermione gapes at him. Her mouth opens and closes a couple of times as desperately tries to think of a retort. She feels about six inches tall. A blush heats her cheeks and she prays he won't look up and see it. Is she truly just as bad as she has always been; an insecure adolescent desperate for her teacher's praise? Apparently so.

Snape gives a heavy sigh. "I am indeed a 'horrible man'. I have never made any pretense of being otherwise." He replaces the final bottle in the first of three crates and moves it onto the floor so he can start to examine the one below. "If you are so desperate for me to test your skills then I shall do so once I am finished examining these potions. Now, for the love of Merlin will you do something about your infernal whining?"

To her horror, Hermione realises that, in her distress, her shields have become leaky and her dislike for Snape along with her upset at his failure to praise her and the realisation that she is still no better than a pathetic schoolgirl have all oozed out around her, now inefficient, barricades. She struggles to bring herself back under control and to re-erect the shield she had been so proud of minutes earlier.

He takes an age to finish. Hermione's impatience has been overtaken by boredom and she sits staring into space her mind straying back to Lucius and the dilemma he presented her with. She is exhausted. Sleep has eluded her for the last few nights. Ever since Lucius made his clumsy proposition, she has found his presence even more difficult to bear than usual.

He is not speaking to her. But the not speaking is much more pointed than his habitual ignoring. It has an offended, irritated edge to it. His condemnation is loudly expressed without the need for words. And then there's the way he looks at her. His cold grey eyes ignite with an unmistakable hunger which both terrifies and excites Hermione in equal measure. He has done nothing. He has neither attempted to renew his address nor tried take things forward physically, but his obvious desire for her permeates the room when they are together. It thickens the air making it almost impossible for Hermione to breathe. Sleep is certainly beyond her. She and Lucius lie in the pregnant darkness scarcely breathing as they each pretend not to be awake. It is an untenable and exhausting situation.

"_Legilimens_!" Snape's attack is so sudden and unexpected that Hermione is knocked physically backward off her stool. She lands on the floor in a puddle of robes and tangled limbs. The breath is knocked from her body and she flails desperately on the floor gasping like a landed fish. Snape ignores her distress. He stands over her his wand still partly raised, and his black-eyed gaze fixed on her own.

Hermione can feel him in her mind. His presence is less intrusive, but no more welcome than that of Voldemort. He rifles through her memories and Hermione can do nothing but batter futilely at him like a toddler pulling ineffectually at the skirts of its mother. She can feel his disappointment in her as he romps unimpeded through her thoughts, but she seems powerless to resist. Any attempts to shield are brushed aside as easily as she might brush away an irritating cobweb.

He stumbles across the previous week's nightmare and pauses to watch. Hermione desperately tries to shut down the memory. She has no need to relieve the horror during her waking hours, besides she _can't _have Snape see what happened after. Lucius' voice intrudes into the nightmare and forces her into action. Hermione stops fighting. Snape is too strong for her to expel. She remembers the lessons of his book and allows him to float along on the current of her memory. Lucius is shaking her awake now. She battens down her panic. She knows what to do. As the nightmare ends, she changes Snape's trajectory and edges him seamlessly onto another memory. They watch together as she adds a dangerous amount of aconite powder to one of the vials of Pepper Up potion. She smiles wickedly as she reseals and shakes the bottle before replacing it in the middle of the crate.

Snape is abruptly gone from her mind. Hermione is still on the floor. She clutches her aching head afraid her brains might be leaking out of her ears. Snape strides back to the crates of potion. A deep frown bisects his forehead. He quickly finds the vial he had watched her poison and unstops it before raising it to his large nose. He inhales deeply but appears unsatisfied with his olfactory assessment. He decants the potion into a small cauldron and stirs it carefully. Eventually, he straightens and turns to Hermione who hasn't moved from the floor.

"That was quite remarkable." His pale countenance s even paler than usual and the frown has not left his face. He continues to stare at her for several more seconds before he strides across the room and begins to prepare a cauldron and ingredients.

"Quite remarkable." Hermione thinks he repeats.

"Well, do you wish to finish your potion or not?"

Hermione is still on the floor her fingers rubbing soothing circles against her temples. She clambers unsteadily to her feet. Snape's assault has left her both physically and mentally bruised. She crosses the lab and stands beside him as he decants the base for the Felix Felicis into a copper-bottomed cauldron.

Neither of them speaks. Hermione's pounding head prevents her usual barrage of questions and Snape is even more taciturn than usual. They work together for more than half an hour with only Snape's occasional requests for utensils and ingredients breaking the silence. It is oddly comfortable, although Hermione avoids any eye contact with the Headmaster. She felt his curiosity as he invaded her mind and she doesn't trust him not to slip back in when he thinks her guard is down.

She is in the process of passing him a hummingbird feather when he suddenly winces and grips his left forearm with his right hand. The feather falls unheeded to the ground.

"Professor, are you all right?" Hermione is surprised at the concern she feels. The fleeting look of agony on Snape's face arouses in her a sympathy she's not sure he deserves.

"I'm fine," he snaps with his usual venom. "I need to leave. We will have to complete the potion another evening."

"But why?" Hermione asks without thinking. "It's at its most sensitive point. We can't leave it now without risking it being ruined."

Snape's grip on his forearm tightens and he winces again.

"Unfortunately, the Dark Lord is less willing to prioritize potion making than you, Miss Granger. I am being summoned and my master is not a patient man."

"Oh." Hermione stares wide eyed at him. A thousand questions threatening to escape her lips. "So that's how he summons you. By causing you physical pain?"

Snape nods curtly and gives their potion a final stir before casting a stasis charm over the golden liquid.

"Surely he won't mind five minutes delay while we just finish this step." Hermione trails after him as he dumps the chopping board and knives in the sink. "I'll do that." She takes the dirty cauldron from him. "I mean, what if you were on the toilet, or asleep or…" she blushes "otherwise engaged?"

"The Dark Lord has no concern for any of these things." Snape is pulling on his heavy cloak which he had hung at the back of the door. "A summons is a summons and must be obeyed immediately."

"But you're an important member of his government," Hermione argues. "He can't treat you like a dog who must come when he's called."

"Do you actually remember of whom you speak, girl?" Snape snarls. His face is twisted with pain and beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. "Do you think the Dark Lord's meetings involve lemon drops and a chummy discussion in which everyone's opinion is considered? He is to be obeyed in everything without question and those who are foolish enough not to follow that simple rule are lucky to escape his presence alive."

"But...But...you're his henchmen…" Hermione stammers in confusion. She can't quite comprehend a world in which Voldemort's followers are as afraid of their master as she is.

Snape pauses in the act of doing up his cloak and stares down his long nose at her.

"For an intelligent young woman, you are remarkably naive," he says with surprisingly little malice. "Be grateful for the choices you made." He pulls up his sleeve to reveal the dark mark which seems to writhe against his pale skin. "If I am able, we shall finish the potion tomorrow." He touches his wand to the dark mark and disappears with a loud crack.

Hermione stares at the spot on the floor previously occupied by Severus Snape for several moments.

Eventually, she makes her way to the sink and begins to wash up the dirty cauldrons and utensils the muggle way. At times like this she is grateful for her muggle heritage. Surely it would be so much harder to be forced to carry out such menial tasks by hand if she had grown up using magic. It's been so long since she cast a spell she sometimes wonders if she even still could. Brewing is the closest she has come to magic in years. She knows enough of magical theory to know that it is her innate magical core which allows the ingredients to combine into a supernatural potion as opposed to a muggle mess, but still, it's hard to think of herself as a witch when she no longer has the ability to do magic.

For once, these thoughts are fleeting. She is much too busy thinking about Snape and his most recent revelations. As is so often the case following her run ins with her ex-professor, she is left feeling wrong-footed and foolish. Her early experience of the likes of Draco and his father had led her to believe that following Voldemort was a choice made willingly, eagerly even. She had assumed that his followers, subscribers to the same dogma as their leader, would delight in his victory and that life within the Voldemort institution would resemble a Death Eater's idea of utopia. But Snape seems afraid and perhaps slightly resentful of his master. Which makes a lot of sense considering Hermione has witnessed his death at Voldemort's hands once already. Still, she had thought Snape a favourite of the Dark Lord. He holds the exalted position of Hogwarts Headmaster after all. And Lucius certainly seems in favour too.

Is Lucius as frightened as Snape? The thought comes to her suddenly and at first, she dismisses it. To her Lucius is infallible. Physically beautiful, powerful, wealthy; he epitomises pure blood perfection. But none of these things will necessarily protect him from Voldemort should he get on the Dark Lord's wrong side.

Now she has begun to consider their situation it is hard to ignore the air of tension which has permeated the household for the entire duration of her incarceration. Lucius certainly does not have the demeanour of a man now enjoying the culmination of his life's work. And Voldemort killed Narcissa in a cold-blooded execution. It seems to Hermione that no leeway had been given. Years of loyalty were disregarded, and Lucius had presumably been left with the choice to continue to serve or to meet the same fate as his wife.

Hermione struggles to remember the Malfoys as a couple. She had only encountered them together on a few occasions, but she thought she remembered a haughty affection between the two. Draco had boasted frequently about the extravagant gift giving between them, although Hermione wasn't necessarily sure that this was indicative of any deep feeling. The most significant evidence she has to examine is her recollection of Lucius' face when he told her of Narcissa's death. He had looked, very briefly, devastated.

Hermione scrubs the potions bench and tries to put thoughts of Lucius and Snape from her mind. They have made their own beds. She should be glad that they are now being forced to lie in them.

* * *

Lucius is reading a letter from the business manager of Gringotts bank when the burning in his forearm begins. He winces but continues reading. The tone of the letter is terse. Goblins are not by nature verbose creatures and Lucius usually enjoys his forthright dealings with the grumpy Gringotts staff. However, under these circumstances he would prefer if the manager had minced his words even a little. He sighs and places the letter carefully down on his leather topped desk. His arm throbs again and he clutches the burning flesh even though he knows it does nothing to alleviate the pain. It's too soon. He needs more time. He glances down at the letter once more. It doesn't matter how much time his is given. It won't make a blind bit of difference.

He is about to give in and answer the summons when the door to his study flies open and Draco bursts into the room. He too is clutching his arm and Lucius feels a heavy weight in his stomach. Draco is rarely summoned and there was a full cabinet meeting only the previous week. Every time his son is called before the Dark Lord Lucius is terrified that the boy is to be used as leverage against him.

"Is something wrong, Draco?" He forces himself to project a calmness he doesn't feel.

"I've been summoned." Draco pushes his hair from his face. He has been running. His cheeks are flushed, and his breathing is uneven. "Haven't you, father?"

"I have," Lucius confirms.

"I have a bad feeling about this." Draco comes further into the room. His hand returns to his left forearm. "He never summons me."

"I'm sure it's nothing." Lucius gets to his feet and moves to place his arm around Draco's shoulder. He feels as if his heart is encased in lead. This boy...this boy who has somehow become a man and is soon to be a father is all that he has left. If anything happens to Draco… he forces himself not to complete the thought. Draco is his Achilles' heel, and everyone knows it. How he wishes he hadn't played the overprotective father quite so ardently. Every quidditch match he'd attended, every time he'd stormed into the school to right some wrong, real or imagined, even his behaviour during the Battle of Hogwarts. It had all confirmed the fact that he was as malleable as mercury. The Dark Lord knows how weak Lucius truly is and he will not hesitate to exploit Draco in order to further his own ambition. Lucius cannot bear for Draco to suffer for his failures, but in this instance, he doesn't know how to succeed.

He shows not a hint of fear as he pulls up his sleeve and readies his wand above the ugly mark on his arm. Draco must never know how frightened his father is.

They arrive together in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor and, as usual, Lucius tries to ignore the disarray in his former home. Even as he lowers himself to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robe, he is carefully assessing the other occupants of the room. What he sees causes the lead fist around his heart to tighten even further. Aside from Draco, only the inner circle is present. This does not bode well for his son.

They take their seats around the large table. Lucius slides in next to Severus and pulls a chair out for Draco on his other side. His friend is as inscrutable as ever. Lucius wishes that, for once, Snape might give something away.

"My friends." Voldemort looks around the table and the whispers of the assembled Death Eaters are instantly silenced. His eyes fall upon an empty seat. "Where is Antonin?" he asks. His tone is soft. One might almost mistake it for indulgent. Lucius keeps his eyes downcast. Perhaps Dolohov will arrive late and distract the Dark Lord's attention from him.

"Well?" Voldemort is striding around the table like an angry teacher. "Somebody must know. Thorfin, you and he are friends, are you not?"

"We are, My Lord." Thorfin Rowle avoids looking at Voldemort as he answers.

"Then where is Antonin? Did he mention he had a prior engagement this evening, one which might supercede a summons from his master?"

"No, My Lord." Lucius can hear the tremble in Rowle's voice.

"Then where is he?"

"I don't know, My Lord." Rowle pushes back his chair with a scrape and draws himself to his full height. He is an impressive figure even with his head bowed and his eyes turned to the floor. "If it pleases you, My Lord, I will go to Antonin's home and see what's keeping him."

There is a long and pregnant silence. Under the table Lucius tightens his fingers around the snake top of his cane.

"Very well, Thorfin. Please go and retrieve our mutual friend. Make sure to inform him that I am most displeased by his absence.

Lucius fancies the entire table lets out a long relieved breath as Rowle leaves the room. He thinks that if the blond wizard has any sense, he will not return without Dolohov to act as a foil for Voldemort's wrath.

"Well." Voldemort paces the room his malevolent gaze flicking from one wizard to another. Nobody dares to look at him. Save Bellatrix who follows his every move with a look of terrifying anticipation.

"Severus." Voldemort stops behind Snape's chair.

"My Lord?" Snape doesn't even move. Lucius can't help but admire the man's balls.

"Your staffing crisis only intensifies, does it not?"

"I wouldn't call it a crisis, My Lord." Snape's tone is bland. Lucius is surprised he doesn't examine his fingernails.

"Are you arguing with me, Severus?"

"I would never presume to argue with you, My Lord." Snape's tone is obsequious. "But as one who is closer to the situation, I only wish to assure you that everything is under control."

"Under control," Voldemort repeats. He looks as if he is about to move from his position behind Snape but suddenly his is bending over the dark wizard his wand pressed against the soft flesh beneath Snape's chin. "Under control," he hisses. "Alecto and Amycus have been forced to remove four professors in the last month due to gross insubordination. Does that sound like control to you?"

"No, My Lord." There is a note of defeat in Snape's voice. His eyes flick towards Lucius' and for the first time he sees fear.

"So, tell me, Severus." To Lucius' surprise, Voldemort releases Snape and straightens up once more. "What steps are you taking to rectify this crisis." He twists his wand between his long fingers as he speaks.

Snape clears his throat. "Well, I have written to the head of every pureblood family in the country to ask them to recommend family members who might be willing to teach-"

"Why only the purebloods?" Voldemort interrupts.

"All of the teachers removed by the Carrows were half-bloods," Snape explains. "Their loyalties were divided. I thought that-"

"Purebloods would be more likely to understand our cause?" Voldemort completes the sentence.

"Yes," Snape replies. He shifts a little in his seat.

"But…" Voldemort pauses as if thinking hard. "Aren't you a half blood, Severus?"

"I am, My Lord. But I assure you that my loyalty lies, as it always has, with you.

"Hmm." Voldemort continues to twirl his wand. He sounds decidedly unconvinced. "What say you, Bella?" He looks across at Bellatrix who licks her lips with unconcealed enthusiasm.

"I think it sounds like Snape isn't doing is job right." She stalks around the table to join her master. Lucius wonders how much of their double act is prerehearsed. "Perhaps you need me to reprimand him, My Lord?" She looks up at Voldemort with sickening eagerness.

"Good idea." Voldemort stands back. "I'm sorry Severus, but I believe you need reminding of just who is in charge here and at Hogwarts."

"My Lord," Severus began. "I can assure you that-"

He is not allowed to continue. Bella's curse hits him between the shoulder blades and he is thrown forward across the table.

Lucius spends the next fifteen minutes trying not to watch his friend being tortured. Snape bears the entire thing with amazing fortitude. He is almost completely silent save the occasional grunt when his body is thrown against the wall or floor. Personally, Lucius thinks he would have done better to scream. Bella is clearly becoming frustrated by his lack of response and perhaps if Snape were more vocal in his suffering her sadistic desires might be satisfied and she would desist from her play. As it is, it is only once Severus is unconscious and slumped against the wall with a thin stream of blood trickling from one ear that Bella is called off. She returns, panting, to her seat which Voldemort politely pulls out for her. She surveys the group with eager eyes. She does not expect Snape to be her only victim. Lucius feels Draco shift uncomfortably next to him. He longs to comfort the boy, but he doesn't dare show any sort of weakness.

"Lucius."

He flinches inwardly as the Dark Lord eyes him across the table.

"Yes, My Lord."

"How go the negotiations with Gringotts."

Lucius braces himself. "Not well, My Lord. The goblins have rejected my most recent offer."

"Then double it." Voldemort waves a negligent hand. "I won't have our banking system governed by Goblins. They are not even human, lower even than Muggles." There are mutters of assent from the assembled wizards. Lucius hates every one of them. He knows the bastards are all just grateful that it isn't their necks on the line.

"Of course, I agree entirely," he says smoothly. "But the problem is that Gringotts bank isn't for sale."

The room falls silent. For at least a minute all Lucius can hear is the pounding of blood in his ears. He frantically searches his mind for a way to retract what he has just said.

"Everything is for sale, Lucius." Voldemort's voice is soft. If Lucius knew him less well, he might think it reassuringly so. He moves to stand behind Draco and runs a long-fingered hand through his platinum hair. The boy stays motionless. "You just have to name the right price." Voldemort's nails dig into the fragile skin of Draco's neck. Lucius grips the head of his cane and internally counts to five.

"So good of you to bring Draco with you this evening, Lucius." He resumes stroking the boy's hair.

"Thank you for the summons," Draco's voice is unsteady. "It was an honour to be included."

"The honour is all mine, I assure you." Voldemort runs his hand down Draco's cheek. "Now, tell me, Draco. How is your Award?"

Draco's eyes flick towards Lucius, but he is powerless to assist him. Even if he did know of a response that might pacify the Dark Lord there is no way for him to communicate it.

"She is well," Draco responds.

"Good, good." Voldemort resumes pacing behind the seated Death Eaters. Draco's shoulders relax a fraction of an inch. "She is with child, is she not?"

Draco's shoulders rise again. "She is, My Lord."

"And the child is yours?"

"Yes, My Lord. A healer has confirmed it."

Lucius feels a flash of relief that he had insisted on ascertaining the parentage of the child even though his son and Miss Weasley had been deeply offended by the inference.

"Well, well." Voldemort fixes his cruel red eyed gaze on Lucius. "Lucius Malfoy, about to be a grandfather. You must be pleased."

"I am, My Lord." Lucius knows better than to argue with his master. He clearly has an agenda and there is no point in trying to divert him from it.

"It would be such a shame, would it not, if something were to go wrong with Miss Weasley or the pregnancy. I understand a witch is very vulnerable in the weeks leading up to her confinement."

Lucius feels Draco tense further beside him. He risks laying a hand on his son's knee in order to steady him.

"I'm sure nothing will go wrong," he says smoothly. "I find the presence of Miss Weasley and her unborn child a great inspiration to me. I am quite sure I will have completed my negotiations with the goblins before my grandson is born. He meets Voldemort's gaze head on.

"Good, good," the Dark Lord purs. "I am so glad to hear it, Lucius. I look forward to hearing of your success."

The meeting turns to other things. Lucius sits as silently as possible only chiming in where it is absolutely necessary. Inside his heart, a tiny flicker of hope blooms. Could he really have escaped punishment yet again? He doesn't think he can take it as stoically as Snape. Worse still, he knows he could not sit idly by and watch his son tortured. As soon as Voldemort lays a hand on Draco, or orders Bella to punish her nephew, Lucius knows his own fate will be sealed.

Finally, they are dismissed. Lucius and Draco rise eagerly and join the other Death Eaters filing out of the room.

"Lucius?"

He stills in his tracks.

"Won't you take Severus back to Hogwarts. He's bleeding all over this fine carpet." Voldemort rubs Severus's blood into the priceless Persian rug with one dirty bare foot.

Together, Lucius and Draco drag the unconscious Snape to the apparition point.

"I'll take him back," Lucius says. "You get back home. Miss Weasley will be worried about you."

"Is he going to be all right?" Draco looks anxiously at Snape.

"I should think so." Lucius shifts Snape in his arms. For such a skinny man he is surprisingly heavy. "I've seen him endure far worse. Madam Pomfrey is still at Hogwarts, I imagine she'll patch him up."

"I hope so." Draco looks around to ascertain that they are alone. "What are you going to do, Father?"

"About what?"

"About Gringotts. I see all your correspondence. The goblins are nowhere near selling out and the ministry couldn't afford it even if they were, but you told The Dark Lord it would be a done deal in a matter of weeks!"

"Keep your voice down," Lucius hisses he glances around them again. "I'll think of something."

"You'll think of something!" There is a note of what sounds dangerously like hysteria in Draco's voice. "The Dark Lord has threatened Ginny and the baby and you're telling me you'll think of something. That's not good enough, Father."

"I'm aware of that, Draco." Lucius shifts Snape's weight again. "However, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss this. I can assure you that I will not allow anything to happen to Miss Weasley or my grandson. Now, I must get Severus back to Hogwarts. I shall see you later."

"Yes Father." Draco looks at least partially reassured by his father's words and Apparates away back to their Yorkshire home without a second look.

"That was very reassuring," Severus mutters. "You had me entirely convinced."

Lucius almost drops the other wizard. "How long have you been awake for?" he demands.

"Long enough." Severus squirms. "Now, could you please take me back to Hogwarts." He spits out a mouthful of blood. "I have two broken ribs, I fear at least one of my internal organs is bleeding and I've chipped a tooth."

Hours later, Lucius wearily makes his way up the staircase to his own bedroom. Severus had lost consciousness once more during their Apparition to the gates of Hogwarts. Lucius had then been obliged to levitate him all the way to the school entrance where a troupe of worried looking house elves had taken over. Poppy Pomfrey was less than pleased to see Lucius, but she had assured him that Severus had indeed endured worse and that he would be back on his feet in no time.

Lucius had made his way home and to his study where he had nursed a large glass of firewhisky. He was exhausted. His entire body was coming down off a massive adrenaline high as his tired brain struggled to cope with the situation, he now finds himself in. He has made promises to the Dark Lord that he has no way of keeping. All he has done is buy Miss Weasley a few more weeks of safety. But what will happen when his next offer to the stubborn goblins is rejected and the next? Eventually, Voldemort will realise that Lucius is bluffing and then retribution will be taken on those he loves the most.

He drinks more firewhisky and tries desperately to think of a solution to his problems. None is forthcoming. Eventually, he drags himself wearily up the stairs. At least the girl will be fast asleep. That is yet another situation he has no idea how to handle. She has rejected him. No woman has ever turned him down before. Since he hit puberty his looks, wealth and privilege have had him fending off advances right left and centre. It is ridiculous that he has become fixated on the one woman who he cannot have. And the worst irony? Since she responded with such disgust to his proposition, he only desires her more. He wonders if he will ever be free of her spell.

* * *

It is late and Hermione can't sleep. She tosses and turns on her futon and eventually climbs out of bed in order to stare out of the window. She would never dare to do such a thing were Lucius present. Usually, she bears her insomnia in uncomfortable silence afraid even to turn over for fear of disturbing Lucius. Now, it is his absence which is keeping her from sleep.

She has no idea how late he is, but it has been many hours since dinner and her internal clock tells her he ought to have been in bed long ago. She can't help but worry. Was Lucius summoned too? Is he in some sort of trouble? Is he even coming back? And if he doesn't, what will become of Hermione? This cannot be his first summons since her incarceration with him, but he has never been so late to bed.

She paces the room her nightgown fluttering around her legs. Her feet are chilled despite the plush carpet and she finds herself wringing her hands in anxiety. Is she really worrying about Lucius Malfoy? _No._ She tells herself. She doesn't care about the man. She only cares about herself and the repercussions if Lucius loses custody of her. She refuses to believe that she may have grown fond of him. Now is not the time to dwell on his occasional acts of kindness, of his gentle hands washing her hair, or the way he pulled her from the depths of her nightmare. Or the feel of his lips against hers.

She doesn't like him. Doesn't care about him. Doesn't want him.

The grey light of dawn is beginning to creep around the curtains when Hermione finally begins to dose sat up in bed with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her head leaning against the wall.

The click of the door opening rouses her, and she sits up properly as Lucius comes into the room. He is briefly silhouetted by the light from the landing before he moves into the room and ignites his reading orb. Hermione is surprised at his consideration. She would have expected him to slam into the room with his usual arrogance igniting every light in the place as he did so.

"Are you all right?" The question escapes her before she can consider the wisdom of speaking.

He pauses in the act of unfastening his heavy cloak and looks at her in surprise. He looks tired. There are fine lines bracketing his mouth and eyes and he is even paler than usual.

"Since when did my well-being give you cause for concern?"

Hermione scrambles to her feet. "You were summoned." She twists her fingers. "I was worried something might have happened to you."

Lucius removes his cloak and lays it across the end of the bed. His movements are deliberate and controlled, but there is an edge to him. The air crackles with nervous tension and Hermione shivers despite the warmth of the room.

"You are, no doubt disappointed then by my safe return."

Hermione shakes her head and wraps her arms around herself.

"I'm not disappointed."

He looks inquiringly at her. One hand is poised to begin teasing off his black leather gloves, but he remains motionless as he awaits her response.

Hermione takes a step toward him. Aware that she must look like a frightened schoolgirl she drops her arms to her sides although she can't prevent her fingers from balling into fists and her nails from digging into her sweating palms.

"I've changed my mind." The words sit in the crackling silence between them. Hermione isn't sure who is more surprised, Lucius or herself. She hadn't known what she was going to say until she had spoken, and yet she knows it is irrevocably true. Her rejection of Lucius was a response to the way he asked, not a true reflection of her innermost desires. Hermione sees now that she will never have him the way she might want. He will never love her. He will never see her as more than a Mudblood girl and consequently she will never be able to develop any real feelings for him. But she can still have him. And it has recently come to her attention that a meal of dry bread, whilst not nearly as appetising as a feast, is still palatable when one is starving.

"With regard to what?" Lucius' grey eyes are fixed on hers. He's not going to make this easy for her.

"You know what." Hermione takes a step closer. Her confidence grows a little. She has not forgotten the way he watches her. The way his body tenses as soon as he realises she is in a room. The subtle hitch in his breathing that tells her he is affected by her presence. He is the vulnerable party here.

"Perhaps." Lucius takes a single step back. His gloves apparently forgotten as he places his hands on his hips. "On the other hand, only days ago you preferred death to sleeping with me. You can hardly be surprised if I am a little confused by your sudden about face."

Hermione shrugs. "There's a saying in the Muggle world-" she pauses to allow him to respond. He doesn't disappoint, a sneer crosses his lips "-it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind. As I said, I have changed mine."

"Why?"

Hermione hesitates. The truth is much too complex for her to articulate. She's not entirely sure she understands her own motivations. "I decided it was pointless to sacrifice my own pleasure for the sake of my principles."

The barb sinks home and he scowls in response. But she can see that she has won. He is staring at her as if she is an oasis in a desert or the last piece of pudding at a busy buffet.

Summoning all her courage, she closes the distance between them and raises her face toward his. At first, she thinks that she will have to kiss him. To coax and tease until he finally gives in, his wounded pride preventing him from taking what he wants. She is wrong.

He kisses her with the same desperate brutality that has been the hallmark of almost all their encounters. She welcomes it with her own aggression and bites at his lip her arms coming up and around his neck so she can tug his hair and rake her fingers across his scalp. She is almost relieved that he is not gentler. That they can still desire one another without any of the parameters of their relationship being forced to change. That the overriding and defining characteristic of their relationship will still be mutual hatred. He is angry. She can feel the tension and rage seeping off him and bleeding over into their kiss and yet he does not stop.

Hermione feels the heady sense of power trickle into her belly like a particularly rich gravy. She is under no illusion that Lucius hates her as much now as he ever did, and yet he cannot stop himself. He is here, his body pressed hard against hers, his teeth grazing her neck, his erection hot against her belly. He is here without coercion or seduction on her part. He is here because he cannot stay away. She has brought him to this.

Her satisfaction is only tempered by the knowledge that she is equally lost. There is nothing to be gained from this tryst. Lucius may well hate her more rather than less after he has had her. There is no love or affection or even liking here. There is only lust. Hermione knows that such an emotion can be used to manipulate. In her, admittedly limited, experience men are weak creatures who can be led around by their cocks and forced to do all kinds of things in order to secure sexual favours. But she fears that Lucius may prove immune to such manipulation. Besides, the sad truth is she wants this just as much as he does.

He is panting as he rips open her robes. His feral gaze scorches a path from her breasts down across her belly to the apex of her thighs where liquid heat soaks the fabric of her underwear. Hermione makes no attempt to cover herself. She shrugs the ruined robes to the floor and steps out of them. She feels no imbalance that she is now dressed only in her knickers and bra whilst he is still fully clothed including his gloves. Part of her longs to run her eyes over the elegant lines of his body, whilst another wishes him to remain as he is, dark, sneering, aloof and untouchable. He is every fantasy she has denied herself for the last three months.

He is on her again his large hands at the back of her bra. When the catch fails to undo on the first attempt, he rips the entire garment from her. Then he is propelling her backwards onto the bed and biting at her breasts gloved fingers twisting her nipple. Hermione writhes beneath him. She is humiliatingly close to orgasm already. She has done all these things, or had them done to her, with Viktor with far more finesse and gentleness and yet it was nothing, nothing like this.

His fingers are between her legs and he shreds her knickers with as much care as he took with the rest of her clothing. Then they dip inside her and she winces a little at the incursion. Lucius frowns and she thinks he has noticed her response. But no, he brings his gloved hand to his face and there is triumph in his expression as he sees the glistening moisture coating his first and second finger. He deliberately holds her eye as his long pink tongue swipes against the leather.

He kisses her again and there is a whisper of herself on his tongue. His hips are grinding against hers and she grinds back. She is close, so close if he will just… Then she thinks he must be able to read her mind because his fingers are between her legs once more and she whimpers at the strange feeling of something wholly alien inside her. He is watching her his grey eyes calculating as his fingers move. She is uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. She feels like a specimen in a lab to be dissected and analysed. Then his thumb comes to rest on the hot swollen bud of her clitoris and she can't even keep her eyes open let alone care that he is looking at her. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut and sinks her teeth into her bottom lip in an attempt to stop herself from making any further sounds. It seems as if every gasp of pleasure he rips from her is an admission of her own weakness. His thumb is rubbing back and forth now. The leather of his glove, coated in the liquid of her arousal, moves without friction as his agile fingers continue to thrust within her.

Hermione can only grip onto his shoulders and ride out the sensations playing out across her overstimulated body. She feels like she did when her father took her on a roller coaster at Alton Towers. She is terrified, lost, out of control and, at the same time, she is hyperalert, every sense is heightened, and she is more gloriously alive than she has ever been before. Pleasure is brewing within her. She can feel her orgasm building to the point that it has become inevitable. Voldemort himself could walk through the bedroom door and it would not stop her from coming. Then Lucius crooks his fingers forward as if he is attempting to pinch her clitoris between them and his thumb and she is pushed abruptly over the edge.

Waves of pleasure radiate out from her clitoris to her belly and she arches her hips involuntarily. She is vaguely aware of the almost inhuman noises emanating from her and later she will wonder that she was even capable of such a vocal range. Gone is any idea of remaining silent as pleasure rips cry after cry from her jerking body. She clenches tightly around Lucius' fingers and he continues to move them lazily inside her drawing out her orgasm for far longer than she has ever experienced.

Limp and wrung out and aware of her own vulnerability she opens her eyes once more. Lucius is still regarding her with the same intent look although there is a hint of smugness now. He leans down and kisses her again. It is just as hard and demanding as before and, to her surprise, Hermione's exhausted body immediately responds. Her heart rate, which had only just begun to slow, accelerates once more. The exhausted muscles of her stomach tighten and, despite his fingers still buried inside her, she feels an aching sense of emptiness. She still wants him. An orgasm is not enough. She needs to fully know him. She buries her trembling fingers in his hair once more and crushes her lips against his. This time she bites at his lip as she arches up toward him trying to incite him into giving her what it is she so desperately needs.

He rips her hands out of his hair and pins them above her head with one of his own. Then he is fumbling at his fly his fingers occasionally brushing her sex as he moves. Hermione is wild beneath him. She struggles and bucks as she tries desperately to maneuver him into the right position. She wants more contact, to touch him, more everything. She has waited too long for this and now it is imminent she cannot wait a second longer.

He gives a groan of relief and his cock tumbles down onto her belly. Hermione is aware of its scorching heat before his hand is between her legs once more and then he is inside her. For a split second she feels nothing. Like the time in third year potions when her knife slipped and cut deep into her thumb and for a few blissful seconds she simply stared at the gushing blood and marveled at the lack of feeling. Then, just as it had done all those years ago hot agonising pain lances through her.

She screams a full-bodied throat ripping scream. She contorts every muscle desperately trying to get away as he pounds into her repeatedly. And it's nothing like she imagined. There is no gradual reduction in pain to find it slowly replaced by pleasure. There is no joy in the pain itself. There is only him, massive and unstoppable tormenting her aching burning flesh rendered even more sensitive by her recent orgasm. He is going to split her in two. She can feel her body beginning to crumble. He will break her open and when he pulls out, she be left to exsanguinate on the bed. She cannot take it. It is too close, too personal, too private a pain. It is even worse than the Cruciatus curse because it is right _there_ where nobody has ever touched her before.

"Stop please," she screams the words, but her voice is garbled. Even she can't understand what she is saying. "Mr Malfoy, Lucius...please." Tears are streaming down her cheeks and trickling away to soak the pillow. He pounds even harder and then his whole-body tenses and his cock becomes even larger and even more painful inside her and she can feel him coming. There is a strange pulsing sensation followed by a feeling of warmth deep inside which must be his ejaculate spilling into her. And that is good because it means this torment, this torture is nearly over. And she forces herself to look at him because knowledge is power and even in the midst of his orgasm Lucius Malfoy is beautiful. Evil, bigoted, selfish and now she knows sadistic too, but still beautiful.

Then it is over. He stops moving. His eyes open and she thinks she registers surprise as he looks down at her tear stained face. She winces as he pulls himself out of her and then he stands and moves toward the bathroom with her dirty muddy blood smeared across his penis and thighs. The door slams behind him and she is alone.

* * *

He leans against the tiled wall the steaming water pounding across his shoulders. It's too hot. The rivulets of water are like tiny needles penetrating his skin and still it is not hot enough. He will never be clean again.

He looks down at the streaks of blood on his thighs. Did she do it on purpose? Did she conceal her innocence from him knowing he would be marked by her? Knowing that nothing would horrify him more than to be despoiled by her filthy blood. He reaches for a flannel and wipes it away the water around his feet turning pale pink for a few moments before the evidence of his downfall disappears down the drain.

He thinks of Narcissa; his beautiful wife. The culmination of hundreds of years of careful breeding. The product of thousands of hours of training in etiquette and social graces. A perfect paragon of beauty and pureblood virtue. He had loved her dearly. And yet...never had he felt such raw unbridled desire for Narcissa. Never had he taken her with such force, with such an animalistic lack of control. Of course, the Mudblood is barely more than an animal he tells himself. She did not need or deserve the careful cosseting he would have afforded a pureblood witch.

He is briefly assaulted by the image of the girl's tear streaked face before he left her. He hadn't meant to hurt her. At least, not in a way that was not mutually enjoyable. Their previous encounters had been a savage outpouring of mutual loathing that manifested as potent physical attraction. He has no reason to think that bedding her ought to have been any different. He had expected her to give as good as she got and the screaming and hair pulling had been wholly expected and not unwelcome. It had all been so perfect. She had been just as wild and feral as he had expected. She had come apart around his fingers screaming her pleasure and begging for more. The desire he felt had been by no means one side. He had been certain of it. Until he had opened his eyes and seen her face. Until his lust-soaked brain has actually processed what she was trying to say. Until he had come to his senses enough to acknowledge that the girl beneath him that he has deflowered so brutally was barely twenty years old and had been screaming not with pleasure, but with pain.

He abruptly shuts off the hot water and gasps as the icy blast hits him. How was he to know? She'd been on the run with Potter and Weasley for a year. He'd thought at least one, if not both would have had her. Everybody knew that Muggle women were promiscuous and during his schooldays, which was the last time he'd had any real contact with Muggleborn witches, it had been said that they were the same. Look at Potter's mother; leading on Severus one day then spreading her legs for James Potter the next. He will not feel guilty about what has transpired between them. He is the one who has shamed himself. He is the one who has fallen. He is the one who has allowed himself to be governed by lust and has sullied his family name in the process.

He steps out of the shower and dresses quickly seething anger boiling within him. How dare she bring him to this? He expects her to be gone. He had forgotten to ward the door when he came in that evening. She notices everything. There is no way the opportunity to escape will have been missed. She won't get far, and he will be grateful not to have to tolerate her insolent stare and grating questions. He is halfway to the bed when he realises it is still occupied. The girl is fast asleep in a cocoon of tightly wrapped blankets and tangled brown curls. Her impossibly long eyelashes rest upon tear stained cheeks and there is a line of finger shaped bruises along the curve of her jaw. He doesn't even remember touching her there.

Looking down at her sleeping form something tired and long forgotten turns over inside him before it is quickly surpassed by irritation.

"Get up, girl." He grabs one of the blankets and yanks it roughly partially uncovering her.

"What?" She starts awake and immediately scrambles into a sitting position as she clutches the remaining blankets across her chest.

"This is not your bed," Lucius growls. He points imperiously to the futon in the corner of the room. The girl glares at him the sheer venom in that one look is terrifying. She climbs from the bed one of his blankets still wrapped demurely around her chest.

"That is not yours."

She stands completely still the blanket pulled around her. Then, her look changes to one of insolence and she drops the square of fabric at his feet as she walks past him. She climbs into her own small bed without so much as a glance in his direction and pulls the cover right up over her head.

Lucius looks at his empty bed. There is a large brown stain directly in the centre and he can taste the coppery tang of blood in the back of his throat. He vanishes the sheets with a shudder and summons a house elf to come and remake the bed. The task takes only minutes to complete, but by the time he is ensconced under clean covers and they are alone once more he can tell from her level breathing that the girl is fast asleep.

**A/N I'm sorry that the sex wasn't nicer...I'm sorry that Lucius isn't nicer... Just generally sorry! **


End file.
